IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


,^"**^^ 


1.0 


I.I 


U^|2j8     |2.5 


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Photographic 

Sciences 
Corporation 


23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  NY.  14580 

(716)  872-4503 


L<P 


CIHM/ICMH 

Microfiche 

Series. 


CIHM/ICMH 
Collection  de 
microfiches. 


Canadian  Institute  for  Historical  Microreproductions  /  Institut  Canadian  de  microreproductions  historiques 


Technical  and  Bibliographic  Notes/Notes  techniques  et  bibliographiques 


The  Institute  has  attempted  to  obtain  the  best 
original  copy  available  for  filming.  Features  of  this 
copy  which  may  be  bibliographically  unique, 
which  may  alter  any  of  the  images  in  the 
reproduction,  or  which  may  significantly  change 
the  usual  method  of  filming,  are  checked  below. 


D 


D 


n 

D 
D 


D 


D 


Coloured  covers/ 
Couverture  de  couleur 


I      I    Covers  damaged/ 


Couverture  endommagde 


Covers  restored  and/or  laminated/ 
Couverture  restaurie  et/ou  pellicul6e 


I      I    Cover  title  missing/ 


Le  titre  de  couverture  manque 


Coloured  maps/ 

Cartes  g^ographiques  en  couleur 


Coloured  ink  (i.e.  other  than  blue  or  black)/ 
Encre  de  couleur  (i.e.  autre  que  bleue  ou  noire) 


Coloured  plates  and/or  illustrations/ 
Planches  et/ou  illustrations  en  couleur 


Bound  with  other  material/ 
Reli6  avec  d'autres  documents 


r~7|    Tight  binding  may  cause  shadows  or  distortion 


along  interior  margin/ 

Lareliure  serr^e  peut  causer  de  I'ombre  ou  de  la 

distortion  le  long  de  la  marge  int^rieure 

Blank  leaves  added  during  restoration  may 
appear  within  the  text.  Whenever  possible,  these 
have  been  omitted  from  filming/ 
II  se  peut  que  certaines  pages  blanches  ajout^es 
lors  d'une  restauration  apparaissent  dans  le  texte, 
mais,  lorsque  cela  6tait  possible,  ces  pages  n'ont 
pas  6t6  filmdes. 

Additional  comments:/ 
Commentaires  suppl6mentaires: 


L'Institut  a  microfilm^  le  meilleur  exemplaire 
qu'il  lui  a  6t6  possible  de  se  procurer.  Les  details 
de  cet  exemplaire  qui  sont  peut-Atre  uniques  du 
point  de  vue  bibliographique,  qui  peuvent  modifier 
une  image  reproduite,  ou  qui  peuvent  exiger  une 
modification  dans  la  mdthode  normale  de  filmage 
sont  indiquds  ci-dessous. 


I      I    Coloured  pages/ 


s/ 


n 


Pages  de  couleur 

Pages  damaged/ 
Pages  endommag^es 

Pages  restored  and/oi 

Pages  restaur^es  et/ou  pellicul6es 

Piiges  discoloured,  stained  or  foxec 
Pages  ddcolordes,  tachetdes  ou  piqudes 


I      I    Pages  damaged/ 

I      I    Pages  restored  and/or  laminated/ 

r~T|    Piiges  discoloured,  stained  or  foxed/ 


□    Pages  detached/ 
Pages  ddtach^es 

~T\    Showthrough/ 
^    Transparence 


Quality  of  print  varies/ 
Quality  in^gale  de  I'impression 


I      I    Includes  supplementary  material/ 


Comprend  du  materiel  supplementaire 

Only  edition  available/ 
Seule  Edition  disponible 


Pages  wholly  or  partially  obscured  by  errata 
slips,  tissues,  etc.,  have  been  refilmed  to 
ensure  the  best  possible  image/ 
Les  pages  totalement  ou  partiellement 
obscurcies  par  un  feuillet  d'errata,  una  pelure, 
etc.,  ont  6t6  film^es  d  nouveau  de  fapon  d 
obtenir  la  meilieure  image  possible. 


T 
t( 


T 

P 
o 
fi 


O 

b 

th 

si 

o1 

fii 

si 

or 


TJ 
sh 
Tl 
w 

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dii 

en| 
be 
rig 
ret 
mi 


This  item  is  filmed  at  the  reduction  ratio  checked  below/ 

Ce  document  est  fWvni  au  taux  de  reduction  indiqu6  ci-dessous. 


10X 

14X 

18X 

22X 

26X 

30X 

7 

12X 


16X 


20X 


24X 


28X 


32X 


■*T 


"^^ 


The  copy  filmed  here  has  been  reproduced  thanks 
to  the  generosity  of: 

Izaak  Walton  Killam  Memorial  Library 
Dalhoutie  University 


L'exemplaire  filmA  fut  reproduit  grAce  A  la 
gAn6rositA  de: 

izaak  Walton  Killam  Memorial  Library 
Dalhoutie  University 


The  images  appearing  here  are  the  best  quality 
possible  considering  the  condition  and  legibility 
of  the  original  copy  and  in  keeping  with  the 
filming  contract  specifications. 


Las  images  suivantes  ont  6t6  reproduites  avec  le 
plus  grand  soin,  compte  tenu  de  la  condition  et 
de  la  nettet6  de  I'exempiaire  film6,  et  en 
conformity  avec  les  conditions  du  contrat  de 
filmage. 


Original  copies  In  printed  paper  covers  are  filmed 
beginning  with  the  front  cover  and  ending  on 
the  last  page  with  a  printed  or  illustrated  impres- 
sion, or  the  back  cover  when  appropriate.  All 
other  original  copies  are  filmed  ijeginning  on  the 
first  page  with  a  printed  or  illustrated  impres- 
sion, and  ending  on  the  last  page  with  a  printed 
or  illustrated  impression. 


Les  exemplaires  originaux  dont  la  couverture  en 
papier  est  imprim6e  sont  fiimds  en  commengant 
par  le  premier  plat  et  en  terminant  soit  par  la 
dernidre  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impression  ou  d'illustration.  soit  par  le  second 
plat,  salon  le  cas.  Tous  les  autres  exemplaires 
originaux  sont  film6s  en  commen^ant  par  la 
premiere  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impression  ou  d'illustration  et  en  terminant  par 
la  dernidre  page  qui  comporte  une  telle 
empreinte. 


The  last  recorded  frame  on  each  microfiche 
shall  contain  the  symbol  -^  (meaning  "CON- 
TINUED ").  or  the  symbol  V  (meaning  "END"), 
whichever  applies. 


Un  des  symboles  suivants  apparaltra  sur  la 
dernidre  image  de  cheque  microfiche,  selon  le 
cas:  le  symboie  — ►  signifie  "A  SUIVRE",  le 
symbole  V  signifie  "FIN". 


Maps,  plates,  charts,  etc.,  may  be  filmed  at 
different  reduction  ratios.  Those  too  large  to  be 
entirely  included  in  one  exposure  are  filmed 
beginning  in  the  upper  left  hand  corner,  left  to 
right  and  top  to  bottom,  as  many  frames  as 
required.  The  following  diagrams  illustrate  the 
method: 


Les  cartes,  planches,  tableaux,  etc..  peuvent  dtre 
film6s  d  des  taux  de  reduction  diffirents. 
Lorsque  le  document  est  trop  grand  pour  dtre 
reproduit  en  un  seul  clich6,  ii  est  film6  A  partir 
de  I'angle  sup^rieur  gauche,  de  gauche  d  droite, 
et  de  haut  en  bas,  en  prenant  le  nombre 
d'images  n^cessaire.  Les  diagrammes  suivants 
illustrent  la  m^thode. 


1 

2 

3 

32X 


1  2  3 

4  5  6 


Wy 


DALHOUSIE  UNIVERSITY 
LIBRARY 


< .  > 


SPECIAL        pec.  Cop 
COLLECTIONS 


*;•    ,' 


vV 


■:JC-.  '-•;*; 


':  i-    » 


'(•  r 


/ 


'/ 


GEOFFREY  MOSCTON 


OB,  THB 


Fi^ITIUL-ESS   aUA-RDIA-N. 


■St 

1»       ". 


BT 


SUSANNA   MOODIE, 


AUTHOR  OF 


1^"*?:^ 


i;^- 


"BOUOBINQ    it    in    THB    BUSH,"    "MARK    BURDLRSTONI,"    "  LirR     IH    THB    OLBABMOa," 
■'FLORA  LTNDSAT,"  "MATRIMONIAL  SPB0ULATION8,"  KTO.,  BTO. 


What-dott  thou  think  I'll  bend  to  tliee  I 
The  free  in  toul  are  ever  free  ; 

Nor  force,  nor  poverty  can  bind 
The  tabtle  will— the  thinking  mind. 


KEW  YORK:  "^^ 

DE  WITT    &  DAVENPORT,    PUBLISHERS, 

160    &    162    NASSAU    STREET. 


/ill  I/O- 


.  r    «    '-f*   ■■'  >    *■  ?      J' 


=  ) 


■"    ,!('> 


j'...:Li.]-ii  Aij'^. .' 


!      X  !W  '  I- 


ft-rf  *t 


ici ,      »..  EirtBBiD  Mcording  to  Act  of  Congrtu,  in  th«  y«»r  18S5,  by 

DE   WITT   ft   DAVENPORT. 
'jx  tha  ClarK'i  00c«  of  tlte  U.  S.  Dittriet  Coart,  for  th«  Sonthan  Diitriot  of  New  York. 


.S^ntr^  ii 


-<..•■-: 


^   =(    >s     ,        :  I    I  \.l  ■ 


^•.■'i  >^r:^ 


v'l ;.'■  1    J  -^''tsJ-' 


mw^>i^  A<<^;'..;^; 


5*ktiWi>tr!  f»"t'^3  .?.i:«f"i;. 


W.  &  TINSON,  ■TmiOTTPCB.  B.  OKAIOHCAD,  PBINTKB.  O.  '*r.  ALSXANDIB,  BIMDKB. 


-s. 


TO 


// 


■\ 


JOHN    LOVELL,    Esq., 

OF     MONTREAL, 

WHO  WAS  ONE  OF  THE  FIRST  AND  MOST  SUCCESSFUL 
KOmSERS    IN    ESTABLISHINa    A    NATIONAL    LITERATURE     IN     THE 

CANADIAN     COLONIES, 

THIS      VOLUME, 

WHICH  OWES  ITS  EXISTENCE  TO  HIS   GENEROUS   CARE, 
BT  HIS  GRATEFUL  AND  OBLIGED  FRIEND, 


SUSANNA   MOODIB. 


SMwiUe,  Upper  Canada. 


.t^g-fi-it-ii.-i-'f    »-:■ 


"  r"~ 


m. 


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8T?::iT  /  ^>:> 


Mi  . 

Pi"    . 
mi 


9;^-f!T.'i^i    i^f/    *r: 


^     '  ''7*  f  ',    -^i:. '-  -|,    .  ■ 


\^  -. .  V ' '  < , :    , .  I 


"»^'<»'  I* 


.,a  *^y  *  Ai%:i 


,  CONTENTS.'   LI^; 

'      '     ■'" "■■■ ' '  '  !i'X  r, -r^  " '•■•'■'■    >%        ,.  .^ , 

*•• -,.■      „     ..-,,.    .^f:m'r. 

cRAPTim  riaa 

1.  My  Grandfather  and  his  Sons 9 

II.  My  Mother's  Fuaeral 14 

III.  My  Aunt  Rebecca 18 

IV.  The  Tutor 22 

y.  A  Change  in  my  Prospects 28 

yi.  The  Sorrows  of  Dependence      .       .       .       .       .       .32 

yU.  George  Harrison 39 

yin.  Ungratified  Cariosity 48 

IX.  A  Portrait 55 

X  Dreams 68 

XI.  My  First  Love 77 

XII.  I  forfeit  my  Independence 92 

Xm.  A  yisit  from  the  Great  Man  of  the  Family       .       .        .103 

XIV.  Love  and  Hatred 115 

Xy.  George  Harrison  tells  his  History 133 

Xyi.  George  Harrison  continues  his  History     ....  150 

XVH.  He  finds  a  Friend  in  Need 162 

XyiH.  The  Meeting 173 

XIX.  Light  Come,  Light  Go       .......  186 

XX.  Alice 197 

XXI.  My  yisit  to  Moncton  Park 219 


^ 


XXIL 

xxm. 

XXIV. 

XXV. 

XXVI. 

xxvu. 

XXVIIL 

XXIX. 

XXX. 

XXXI. 

xxxn. 


I 


OONTSNTB. 

PAiK 

A  Sad  Event     ..     .       .       , 230 

A  Diacovery **• 

My  Seoood  Interview  with  Dinah  North  .       .       .       .    24» 
An  Eiplanation— Departure— Disappointment        .       .    26S 

Eln  Grove 278 

My  Nurse  and  Who'she  Waa    .       .       .       r      •       •    2*^ 

My  Letters ;       .       .    298 

A  Welcome  and  Unwelcome  Meeting       .       .       .       .820 
Dinah's  Conftwion    .       .       .       .       *«      •       •       '888 

Retributive  Justice *** 

The  Double  Bridal 868 

:.  mim^ism^'''  ''  , 

■  ntfcr^'t  -sigii^-'  ■■#■*?**»*  -S^^--  .    :  •*; 

!^!-.-   .:.-.■•   y^At..^  ---s-v     -  "'     ■-■-■■■   :■•■--■  'at)..- 


I 


Vf' '.  '  J  ■»' 


THE    MONCTONS. 


fU 


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♦  . 

,  i  ^..w^«^,  . 

«>  v,M.JL. 

■     >.r      .> 

..*  «■..  4, 

.V 

'  -■  •  nK 

if.-;-/;'    "  « 


-*►- 


\i 


CHAPTER     I. 


MY   GRANDFATHER  AND    HIS  SONS. 


There  was  a  time — a  good  old  time — when  men  of  rank  and 
fortune  were  not  ashamed  of  their  poor  relations  ;  affording  the 
protection  of  their  name  and  influence  to  the  lower  shoots  of  the 
great  family  tree,  that,  springing  from  the  same  root,  expected 
to  derive  support  and  nourishment  from  the  main  stem. 

That  time  is  well-nigh  gone  for  ever  ;  kindred  love  and  hospi- 
tality have  decreased  with  the  increase  of  modern  luxury  and 
exclusivenes.'^,  and  the  sacred  ties  of  consanguinity  are  now 
regarded  with  indifference — or  if  recognized,  it  is  only  with 
those  who  move  in  the  same  charmed  circle,  and  who  make  a 
respectable  appearance  in  the  world — then,  and  then  only — are 
their  names  pronounced  with  reverence,  and  their  relationship 
considered  an  honor. 

It  is  amusing  to  watch  from  a  distance,  the  eagerness  with 
which  some  people  assert  their  claims  to  relationship  with 
wealthy  and  titled  families,  and  the  intrigue  and  manoeuvering  it 

1* 


,-,*  - 


10 


THE     MONOTONB. 


calls  forth  in  these  fortabate  individuals,  in  order  to  disclaim  the 
boasted  connexion. 

It  was  my  fate  for  many  years  to  eat  the  bitter  bread  of 
dependence,  as  one  of  those  despised  and  insulted  domestio 
annoyances — A  Poor  Relation. 

My  grandfather,  Geoffrey  Moucton,  whose  name  I  bear,  was 
the  youngest  son  of  a  wealthy  Yorkshire  Baronet,  whose  hopes 
and  affections  entirely  centered  in  his  first-born — what  became 
of  the  junior  scions  of  the  family-tree  was  to  him  a  matter  of 
secondary  consideration.  My  grandfather,  however,  had  to  be 
provided  for  in  a  manner  becoming  the  son  of  a  gentleman,  and 
on  his  leaving  college.  Sir  Robert  offered  to  purchase  him  a 
commission  in  the  army. 

My  grandfather  was  a  lad  of  peaceable  habits,  and  had  a 
mortal  antipathly  to  fighting.  He  refused  point  blank  to  bo  a 
soldier.  The  Navy  offered  the  same  cause  for  objection,  strength- 
ened by  a  natural  aversion  to  the  water,  which  made  him  decline 
going  to  sea. 

What  was  to  be  done  with  the  incorrigible  youth?  Sir 
Bobert  flew  into  a  passion — called  him  a  coward — a  disgrace  to 
the  name  of  Moncton.       *^  ■      .  t  .^v 

My  grandfather,  who  was  a  philosopher  in  his  way,  pleaded 
guilty  to  the  first  charge.  From  his  cradle  he  had  carefully 
avoided  scenes  of  strife  and  violence,  had  been  a  quiet,  industri- 
ous boy  at  Fchool,  a  sober  plodding  student  at  college,  minding 
bis  own  business,  and  troubling  himself  very  little  with  the  affairs 
of  others.  The  sight  of  blood  made  him  sick  ;  he  hated  the  smell 
of  gunpowder,  and  would  make  any  sacrifice  of  time  and  trouble 
rather  than  come  to  blows.  He  now  listened  to  the  long  cata- 
logue of  his  demerits,  which  his  angry  progenitor  poured  fortli 
against  him,  with  such  stoical  indifference,  that  it  nearly  drew 
upon  him  the  corporeal  punishment  which  at  all  times  he  so 
much  dreaded. i;^',,^»M,.i.;|"s<jr:^^a.       •  ..    ^'J-ms^;  -*,-.- -.?    ■ii"<'V>t .- i„y*;^«A 

Sir  Robert,  at  length  named  the  Church,  as  the  profession 


THK     MONtiTONS. 


11 


best  suited  to  a  young  man  of  hin  peaceable  disposition,  and 
flew  into  a  frc^li  paroxysm  of  rage,  when  the  obstinate  fellow 
positively  refused  to  be  a  parson.         **• 

*'  He  had  a  horror,"  he  said,  "  of  making  a  mere  profession  of 
80  sacred  a  calling.  Besides,  he  had  au  awkward  impediment 
in  his  speech,  and  he  did  not  mean  to  stand  up  in  a  pulpit  to 
expose  his  infirmity  to  the  ridicule  of  others." 

Honor  to  my  grandfather.      He  did  not  want  for  mental 
courage,  though  Sir  Robert,  in  the  plenitude  of  his  wisdom, 
had  thought  fit  to  brand  him  as  a  coward.       .    fr^--'^ 
-.  The  bar  was  next  proposed  for  his  consideration,  but  the  lad 
replied  firmly,  "  1  doji't  mean  to  be  a  lawyer." 

"  Your  reasons,  sir  ?"  cried  Sir  Robert  in  a  tone  which  seemed 
to  forbid  a  liberty  of  choice, 
r  "  I  have  neither  talent  nor  inclination  for  the  profession." 

"  And  pray,  sir,  what  have  you  talent  or  inclination  for  V 

"  A  merchant," — returned  Geoffrey  calmly  and  decidedly, 
without  appearing  to  notice  his  aristocratic  sire's  look  of 
withering  contempt.  "  I  have  no  wish  to  be  a  poor  gentleman. 
Place  me  in  my  Uncle  Drury's  counting-house,  and  I  will  work 
hard  and  become  an  independent  man." 

Now  this  Uncle  Drury  was  brother  to  the  late  Lady  Moncton, 
who  had  been  married  by  the  worthy  J3aronet  for  her  wealth. 
He  was  one  of  Sir  Robert's  horrors — one  of  those  rich,  vulgar 
connections  which  are  not  so  easily  shaken  off,  and  whose  iden- 
tity is  with  great  difficulty  denied  to  the  world.  Sir  Robert 
vowed,  that  if  the  perverse  lad  persisted  in  his  grovelling  6hoice, 
though  he  had  but  two  sons,  he  would  discard  him  altogether. 

Obstinacy  is  a  family  failing  of  the  Monctons.  My  grand- 
father, wisely  or  nnwisely,  as  circumstances  should  afterwards 
determine,  remained  firm  to  his  purpose.  Sir  Robert  realized 
his  threat  ;  the  father  and  son  parted  in  anger,  and  from  that 
hour,  the  latter  was  looked  upon  as  an  alien  to  the  old  family 
stock  J  which  he  was  considered  to  have  disgraced. 


•y .. 


12 


THE     MONCTONS 


Geoffrey,  however,  succeeded  ia  carrying  out  his  great  life 
object.  He  toiled  on  with  indefatigable  industry,  and  soon 
became  rich.  He  had  singular  talents  for  acquiring  wealth,  and 
they  were  not  suffered  to  remain  idle.  The  few  pounds  with 
which  he  commenced  his  mercantile  career,  soon  multiplied  into 
thousands,  and  tens  of  thousands  ;  and  there  is  no  knowing 
what  an  immense  fortune  he  might  have  lealized,  had  not  death 
cut  short  his  speculations  at  an  early  period  of  his  life. 

He  had  married  uncle  Drury's  only  daughter,  a  few  years 
after  he  became  partner  in  the  firm,  by  whom  he  had  two  sous, 
Edward  and  Robert,  to  both  of  whom  he  bequeathed  an  excel- 
lent property. 

Edward,  the  eldest,  my  father,  had  been  educated  to  fill  the 
mercantile  situation,  now  vacant  by  its  proprietor's  death,  which 
was  an  ample  fortune  iu  itself,  if  conducted  with  prudence  and 
regularity. 

Robert  had  been  early  placed  in  the  office  of  a  lawyer  of  emi- 
nence, and  was  considered  a  youth  of  great  talents  and  promise. 
Their  mother  had  been  dead  for  some  years,  and  of  her  little  is 
known  in  the  annals  of  the  family.  When  speculating  upon  the' 
subject,  I  have  imagined  her  to  have  been  a  plain,  quiet,  matter- 
of  fact  body,  who  never  did  or  said  anything  worth  recording. 

When  a  man's  position  in  life  is  marked  out  for  him  by  others, 
and  he  is  left  no  voice  in  the  matter,  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten,  he 
is  totally  unfitted  by  nature  and  inclination  for  the  post  he  is 
called  to  fill.  So  it  was  with  my  father,  Edward.  Moncton.  A 
person  less  adapted  to  fill  an  important  place  in  the  mercantile 
world,  could  scarcely  have  been  found.  He  had  a  genius  for 
spending,  not  for  making  money ;  and  was  so  easy  and  credulous 
that  any  artful  villain  might  dupe  him  out  of  it.  Had  he  been 
heir  to  the  title  and  the  old  family  estates,  he  would  have  riade 
a  first  rate  country  gentleman  ;  as  he  possessed  a  fine  manly 
person,  was  frank  and  generous,  and  excelled  in  all  athletic 
sports.  "  .    . 


■J 


i 


THE     MONCTONS. 


18 


e 


My  Uncle  Robert  was  the  very  reverse  of  my  father — stern, 
shrewd  and  secretive  ;  no  one  could  see  more  of  his  pind  than 
he  was  willing  to  show ;  and,  like  my  grandfather,  he  had  a 
great  love  for  money,  and  a  natural  talent  for  acquiring  it.  An 
old  servant  of  my  grandfather's,  Nicholas  Banks  by  name,  used 
jocosely  to  say  of  him  :  "  Had  master  Robert  been  born  a  beg- 
gar, he  would  have  converted  his  ragged  wrap-rascal  into  a 
velvet  gown.     The  art  of  making  money  was  born  in  him." 

Uncle  Robert  was  very  successful  in  his  profession — and  such 
is  the  respect  that  men  of  common  minds  pay  to  wealth  for  its 
own  sake,  that  my  uncle  was  as  much  courted  by  persons  of  hLs 
class,  as  if  he  had  been  Lord  Chancellor  of  England.  He  was 
called  the  honest  lawyer — wherefore,  I  never  could  determine, 
except  that  ho  was  the  rich  lawyer  ;  and  people  could  not 
imagine  that  the  envied  possessor  of  five  thousand  per  annum, 
could  have  any  inducement  to  play  the  rogue,  or  cheat  his 
clients. 

The  dependent  slave  who  was  chained  all  day  to  tlie  desk,  in 
Robert  Moncton's  office,  knew  him  to  be  a  dishonest  man.  But 
his  practice  daily  increased,-  and  his  reputation  and  fortune 
increased  in  proportion. 

The  habits  and  dispositions  of  these  brothers  were  so  different, 
so  utterly  opposed  to  each  other,  that  it  was  difficult  to  recon- 
cile the  mind  to  the  fact  that  they  were  so  closely  related.      '^  ''^ 

My  uncle  had  a  subt'.e  Knowledge  of  character,  which  was 
rendered  more  acute  by  his  long  acquaintance  with  the  world  ; 
and  he  did  not  always  turn  it  to  a  righteous  account.  My 
father  was  a  babe  in  these  matters — a  cunning  child  might 
deceive  him  ;  while  my  uncle  had  a  knack  of  saving  without 
appearing  parsimonious,  my  father  had  an  unfortunate  habit  of 
frittering  his  money  away  upon  trifles.  You  would  have 
imagined  that  the  one  had  discovered  the  secret  of  the  philoso- 
pher's stone  ;  and  that  the  other  had  ruined  himself  in  endeavor- 
ing to  find  it  out.    The  one  was  economical  from  choice,  the  other 


14 


THE     MONOTONS. 


i 


extravagant  from  the  me^e  loye  of  spending.  My  uncle  married 
a  rich  merchant's  daughter,  for  her  money.  My  father  ran  off 
with  a  poor  curate's  penniless  girl,  for  love.  My  father  neg- 
lected his  business  and  became  poor.  In  the  hope  of  redeemiug 
his  fortune  he  frequented  the  turf  and  the  gambling- table  ;  and 
died  broken-hearted  and  insolvent  in  the  prime  of  manhood  ; 
leaving  his  widow  and  her  orphan  boy  to  the  protection  and 
guardianship  of  the  brother,  who  had  drudged  all  his  life  to 
become  a  millionaire. 

My  dear  mother  only  survived  her  handsome,  reckless 
husband,  six  short  months ;  and,  bereaved  of  both  my  natural 
protectors,  I  was  doomed  at  the  early  age  of  eight  years  to 
drink  the  bitter  cup  of  poverty  and  dependence,  to  its  very 
dregs. 


-*►■ 


CHAPTER     II. 


MY     mother's     funeral. 


I  NEVER  saw  my  Uncle  Robert  Moncton  until  the  morning 
of  my  mother's  funeral  ;  and  the  impression  that  first  interview 
made  upon  my  young  heart  will  never  be  forgotten.  It  cast  the 
first  dark  shadow  upon  the  sunny  dial  of  my  life,  and  for  many 
painful  years  my  days  and  hoars  were  numbered  beneath  its 
gloomy  influence. 

It  was  a  chill,  murky  November  day,  such  a  day  as  London 
or  its  immediate  vicinity  can  alone  produce.  The  rain  fell 
slowly  and  steadily  to  the  ground  ;  and  trickled  from  the 
window-frames  in  one  continuous  stream.  A  thick  mist  Imng 
upon  the  panes  of  glass  like  a  gauze  veil,  intersected  by  innu- 
merable channels  of  water^  that  looked  like  a  pattern  of  open 
work  left  in  the  ulngy  material.    The  shutters  of  our  once 


I 


THE     M0NCT0N3 


15 


I  alous  parlor  ^ere  half-closed  ;  and  admitted  into  the  large, 
<ic:3erted  apartment,  only  a  portion  of  this  obscure  light.  The 
hearse  destined  to  convey  the  remains  of  my  dear  mother  to 
their  last,  long  resting-place,  was  drawn  up  at  the  door.  I  saw 
it  looming  through  the  fog,  with  its  tall,  black  shadowy  plumes, 
like  some  ghostly  and  monstrous  thing.  A  hitherto  unknown 
feeling  of  dread  stole  over  me.  My  life  had  been  all  sunshine 
up  to  the  present  moment — the  sight  of  that  mournful  funeral 
array  swept  like  a  dark  cloud  over  the  smiling  sky,  blotting  out 
all  that  was  bright  and  beautiful  from  my  eyes  and  heart.  I 
screamed  in  terror  and  despair,  and  hid  my  face  in  the  lap  of 
my  old  nurse  to  shut  out  the  frightful  vision,  and  shed  torrents 
of  tears. 

The  good  woman  tried  to  soothe  me  while  she  adjusted  my 
black  dress,  as  I  was  to  form  one  in  that  ^doleful  procession  as 
chief  mourner — I  was  my  mother's  only  child.  The  only  real 
mourner  there. 

The  door  that  led  into  the  next  room  was  partly  open.  I 
saw  the  undertaker's  people  removing  the  coffin  in  order  to 
place  it  in  the  hearse.  This  vas  a  fresh  cause  for  anxiety.  I 
knew  that  that  black,  mysterious  looking  box  contained  the 
cold,  pale,  sleeping  form  of  my  mother  ;  but  I  could  not  realize 
the  fact,  that  the  beautiful  and  beloved  being,  who  had  so  lately 
kissed  and  blessed  me,  was  unconscious  of  her  removal  from  her 
home  and  weeping  boy. 

"  Mamma  ! — dear  mamma  I"  I  cried,  struggling  violently 
with  nurse.  "  Let  me  go,  nurse  1  those  wicked  men  shall  not 
take  away  mamma  1" 

Two  gentlemen,  attracted  by  my  cries  and  struggles,  entered 
the  room.  The  foremost  was  a  tall,  portly  man,  whom  the 
world  would  call  handsome.  His  features  were  good,  and  his 
complexion  darkly  brilliant  :  but  there  was  a  haughty,  con- 
temptuous expression  in  his  large,  prominent,  selfish-looking 
eyes,  that  sent  a  chill  to  my  heart.     Glittering  and  glassy,  they 


16 


THE     MONOTONS. 


i 


sparkled  like  ice — clear,  sarcastic  and  repelling — and  oh,  how 
coldl  The  glance  of  that  eye  made  me  silent  in  a  moment.  It 
fascinated  like  the  eye  of  a  snake.  I  continued  to  shiver  and 
stare  at  him,  as  long  as  its  scornful  gaze  remained  riveted  upon 
my  face.  I  felt  a  kindred  feeling  springing  up  in  my  heart — a 
feeling  of  defiance  and  resistance  that  would  fain  return  hatred 
for  hatred,  scorn  for  scorn  ;  and  never  in  after  life  could  I  meet 
the  searching  look  of  that  stern  cold  eye,  without  experiencing 
the  same  outward  abhorrence  and  inward  revulsion. 

He  took  my  hand,  and  turning  me  round,  examined  my  coun- 
tenance with  critical  minuteness,  neither  moved  by  my  childish 
indignation  nor  my  tears.  "  A  strong-limbed,  straight-made 
fellow,  this.  I  did  not  think  that  Edward  could  be  the  father 
of  such  an  energetic-looking  boy.  He's  like  his  grandfather, 
and  if  I  mistake  not,  will  be  just  as  obstinate  and  self-sus- 
tained." 

"  A  true  Moncton,"  returned  his  companion,  a  coarse-featured, 
vulgar-looking  man,  with  a  weak,  undecided,  but  otherwise 
kindly  countenance.  "  You  will  not  be  able  to  bend  that  young 
one,  to  your  purpose." 

A  bitter  smile  was  the  reply,  and  a  fixed  stare  from  those 
terribly  bright  eyes. 

"  Poor  child  1  He's  very  unfortunate,"  continued  the  same 
speaker.  "  I  pity  him  from  my  very  soul."  He  placed  his 
large  hand  kindly  upon  my  head,  and  drawing  me  between  his 
knees  held  up  my  face  and  kissed  me  with  an  air  of  parental 
tenderness.  Touched  by  the  ujiexpected  caress,  I  clasped  my  ■ 
arms  about  his  neck,  and  hid  my  face  in  his  bosom.  He  flung 
himself  into  a  large  chair,  and  lifted  me  upon  his  knee. 

"  You  seem  to  have  taken  a  fancy  to  the  boy,"  said  my  uncle, 
in  the  same  sarcastic  tone.  "  Suppose  you  adopt  him  as  your 
son.  I  would  gladly  be  rid  of  him  for  ever  ;  and  would  pay 
well  for  his  change  of  name  and  country.  Is  it  a  bargain  ?" 
and  he  grasped  his  companion  by  the  shoulder. 


1 


THE     MONOTO  N  8, 


It 


"  No.  I  will  not  incur  the  responsibility.  I  have  done  too 
mnch  against  the  poor  child  already.  Besidies,  a  man  with  ten 
children  has  no  need  of  adopting  the  child  of  a  stranger.  Pro- 
vidence has  thrown  him  into  your  hands,  Robert  Moncton  ;  and 
whether  for  good  or  evil,  I  beseech  you  to  treat  the  lad  kindly 
for  his  father's  sake." 

"  Well,  well,  I  must,  I  see,  make  the  best  of  a  bad  bargain. 
But,  Walters,  yon  could  so  easily  take  him  with  you  to  Ame- 
rica. He  has  no  friends  by  the  mother's  side,  to  make  any  stir 
about  his  disappearance.  Under  your  name  his  identity  will 
never  be  recognized,  and  it  wonld  be  taking  a  thorn  out  of  my 
side."  -A.- .T? '—i'^^H^;?'  ■^■-.'r.'-: 

"  To  plant  it  in  my  own  heart.    The  child  must  remain  with 


» 


you 

I  didn't  pay  very  particular  attention  to  this  conversation  at 
the  time,  but  after  events  recalled  it  vividly  to  my  recollection. 

The  undertaker  put  an  end  to  the  conference  by  informing 
the  gentlemen  that  "  all  was  ready,  and  the  hearse  was  about 
to  move  forward."  My  nurse  placed  me  in  a  mourning  coach, 
beside  my  uncle  and  his  companion,  in  order  that  I  might  form 
a  part  in  that  dismal  procession,  to  the  nearest  cemetery.  I 
shall  never  forget  the  impression  that  solemn  scene  made  on  my 
mind.  My  first  ideas  ,of  death  and  decay  were  formed  whilst 
standing  beside  my  mother's  grave.  There  my  heart  received 
its  first  great  life  lesson  ;  and  owned  its  first  acquaintanceship 
with  grief — the  ideal  vanished,  and  the  hard,  uncompromising 

real  took  its  place.  .,;i.^:0,(g^  m^^^  |^*«^  ■^<*^-^-^^ .,,..» 4,i,^„ 
^  ^  After  the  funeral  was  over,  I  accompanied  my  TThcte  llobert 
to  his  house  in  Hatton  Garden.    At  the  door  we  parted  with 
Mr.  Walters,  and  many  years  elapsed,  before  I  saw  his  face 
again 


■  *i^l|^j 


-        ka 


i^^«^  i0^m  mim^m 


^'^■^'■ 


m 


IS 


THB     UON0TON8. 


A   >^\^,'  f^^.   r       .."& 


CHAPTER    III 


MT  AUNT  REBBOCA. 


Mrs.  Moncton  welcomed  the  poor  orphan  with  kindness. 
She  was  a  little,  meek-looking  woman  ;  with  a  sweet  voice,  and 
a  very  pale  face.  She  might  have  been  pretty  when  young, 
bat  my  boyish  impression  was  that  she  was  very  plain.  By 
the  side  of  her  tall,  stern  partner,  she  looked  the  most  delicate, 
diminntive  creature  in  the  world  ;  and  her  gentle,  timid  manner 
made  the  contrast  appear  greater  than  it  really  was. 

"  God  bless  you,  my  poor  child,"  she  said,  lifting  me  up  in  her 
arms  and  wiping  the  tears  from  my  face.  "You  are  young, 
indeed,  to  be  left  an  orphan."        ?  ,  '  T  '^     _ 

V  I  clasped  her  neck  and  sobbed  aloud.  The  sound  of  her  voice 
reminded  me  of  my  mother,  and  I  began  to  comprehend  dimly 
all  I  had  lost.  ».  \ 

"Rebecca,"  said  my  uncle,  in  his  deep,  clear  voice,  "you 
must  not  spoil  the  boy.    There  is  no  need  of  this  display." 

His  wife  seemed  as  much  under  the  influence  of  his  eye  as 
myself.  She  instantly  released  me  from  her  arms,  and  quietly 
placed  me  in  a  chair  beside  the  fire,  and  in  the  presence  of  her 
husband,  she  took  no  more  notice  of  me  than  she  would  have 
done  of  one  of  the  domestic  animals  about  the  house.  Yet,  her 
eyes  rested  upon  me  with  motherly  kindness,  and  she  silently 
took  care  to  administer  liberally  to  all  my  wants  ;  and  when  she 
did  speak,  it  was  in  such  a  soft,  soothing  tone,  that  I  felt  that 
she  was  my  friend,  and  loved  her  with  my  whole  heart. 

My  uncle  was  a  domestic  tyrant — cruel,  exacting,  and  as 


■^' 


W' 


THK     M0N0T0N8. 


19 


obstinate  as  a  male ;  yet,  she  contriyed  to  live  with  him  on 
fricQdly  terms  ;  the  only  creature  in  the  world,  I  am  folly  per- 
suaded, who  did  not  hate  him.  Married,  as  she  had  been,  for 
money,  and  possessing  few  personal  advantages,  it  was  wonder- 
ful the  influence  she  had  over  him  in  her  quiet  way.  She  never 
resisted  his  authority,  however  harshly  enforced ;  and  often 
stood  between  him  and  his  victims,  diferting  his  resentment 
without  appearing  to  oppose  his  will.  If  there  existed  in  his 
frigid  breast  one  sentiment  of  kindness  for  any  human  creature, 
I  think  it  was  for  her.  —  j;     *-r  ^-^^^^t^j^^ 

With  women  he  was  no  favorite.  He  had  no  respect  for  the 
sex,  and  I  query  whether  he  was  ever  in  love  in  his  life.  If  he 
had  ever  owned  the  tender  passion,  it  must  have  been  in  very 
early  youth,  before  his  heart  got  hardened  and  iced  in  the  world. 
My  aunt  seemed  necessary  to  his  comfort,  his  convenience,  his 
vanity  ;  however  he  might  be  disliked  by  others,  he  was  certain 
of  her  fidelity  and  attachment.  His  respect  for  her  was  the  one 
bright  spot  in  his  character,  and  even  that  was  tarnished  by  a 
refined  system  of  selfishness. 

The  only  comfort  I  enjoyed  during  my  cheerless  childhood,  I 
derived  from  her  silent  attention  to  my  wants  and  wishes,  which 
she  gratified  as  far  as  she  dared,  without  incurring  the  jealous 
displeasure  of  her  exacting  husband. 

In  private,  Mrs.  Moncton  always  treated  me  as  her  own  child. 
She  unlocked  the  fountains  of  natural  affection,  which  my  ancle's 
harshness  had  sealed,  and  love  gushed  forth.  I  dearly  loved 
her,  and  longed  to  call  her  mother  ;  but  she  forbade  all  outward 
demonstration  of  my  attachment,  which  she  assured  me  would 
not  only  be  very  offensive  to  Mr.  Moncton,  but  would  draw 
down  his  displeasure  upon  us  both. 

The  hours  I  spent  with  my  good  aunt  were  few  ;  I  only  saw 
her  at  meals,  and  on  the  Sabbath  day,  when  I  accompanied 
her  to  church,  and  spent  the  whole  day  with  her  and  her  only 
son — a  cross,  peevish  boy,  some  four  years  older  than  myself — 


f 


ao 


THB     MONOTONS. 


but  of  him  anon.  Duriftg  the  winter,  she  alway  sent  for  me  into 
the  parlor,  during  the  dark  hoar  between  dinner  and  tea,  when 
I  recited  to  her  the  lessons  I  had  learned  with  my  cousin's  tutor 
during  the  day.  My  uncle  was  always  absent  at  that  hour,  and 
these  were  precious  moments  to  the  young  heart,  that  knew  no 
companionship,  and  pined  for  affection  and  sympathy. 

My  worthy  aunt !  it  is  with  heartfelt  gratitude  I  pay  this 
slight  tribute  to  your  memory.  But  for  your  gentle  love  and 
kind  teachings,  I  might  have  become  as  cold  and  tyrannical  as 
your  harsh  lord — as  selfish  and  unfeeling  as  your  unnatural  son. 

How  I  delighted  to  sit  by  your  side,  in  the  warm,  red  light 
of  the  cheerful  fire,  in  that  large,  dusky  room,  and  hold  your 
small  white  hand  in  mine,  while  I  recounted  to  you  all  the  beau- 
tiful and  shadowy  reminiscences  of  my  happy  infancy — to  watch 
the  pensive  smile  steal  over  your  lips,  as  I  described  the  garden 
in  which  I  played,  the  dear  little  white  bed  in  which  I  slept,  and 
where  my  own  dear  mother  nightly  knelt  beside  me,  to  hear  me 
repeat  my  simple  prayers  and  hymns,  before  she  kissed  and 
blessed  me,  and  left  me  to  the  protecting  care  of  the  great 
Father  in  Heaven. 

"  Ah  I"  I  exclaimed  one  evening,  while  sitting  at  my  aunt's 
feet,  "  why  did  she  die  and  leave  me  for  ever  ?  I  am  nobody's 
child.  Other  little  boys  have  kind  mothers  to  love  them,  but  I 
am  alone  in  the  world.  Aunt,  let  me  be  your  boy — your  own 
dear  little  boy,  and  I  will  love  you  almost  as  well  as  I  did  my 
poor  mamma  I" 

The  good  woman  caught  me  to  her  heart,  tears  were  stream- 
ing down  her  kind,  benevolent  face,  she  kissed  me  passionately, 
as  she  sobbed  out, 

"  Geoffrey,  you  will  never  know  how  much  I  love  you — more, 
my  poor  boy,  than  I  dare  own.  But  rest  assured  that  you  shall 
never  want  a  mother's  love  while  I  live." 

Well  and  conscientiously  did  she  perform  her  promise.  She 
has  long  been  dead,  but  time  will  never  efface  from  my  mind 


TU£     MUNCT0M8. 


H' 


I 

la 

y 


Le 


a  tender  recolleetioa  of  her  kiadneBS.  Since  I  arr'iTed  at  man's 
estate,  I  haye  knelt  beside  her  graye,  and  moistened  the  tnrf 
which  enfolds  that  warm,  noble  heart  with  gratefnl  tears,   r^^  ^ 

She  had,  as  I  before  stated,  one  son — the  first  born  and  only 
snTviyor  of  a  large  family.  This  boy  was  a  great  sonrce  of 
anxiety  to  his  mother  ;  a  sullen,  unmanageable,  ill-tempered 
child.  Cruel  and  cowardly,  he  united  with  the  cold,  selfish  dis- 
position of  the  father,  a  jealous,  proud  and  TindictiTe  spirit 
peculiarly  his  own.  It  was  impossible  to  keep  on  friendly  terms 
with  Theophilns  Moucton  ;  he  was  always  taking  affronts,  and 
ever  on  the  alert  to  dispute  and  contradict  every  word  or 
opinion  advanced  by-another.  He  would  take  offence  at  every 
look  and  gesture,  which  he  fancied  derogatory  to  his  dignity  ; 
and  if  you  refused  to  speak  to  him,  he  considered  that  you  did 
not  pay  him  proper  respect — that  you  slighted  and  insulted  him. 

He  was  afraid  of  his  father,  for  whom  he  entertained  little, 
esteem  or  affection  ;  and  to  his  gentle  mother  he  was  always 
snrly  and  disobedient ;  ridiculing  her  maternal  admonitions,  and 
thwarting  and  opposing  her  commands,  because  he  knew  that 
his  opposition  pained  and  annoyed  her. 

Me — he  hated  ;  and  not  only  told  me  so  to  my  face,  both  in 
public  and  private,  but  encouraged  the  servants  to  treat  me 
with  insolence  and  neglect.  This  class  of  individuals  are  seldom 
actuated  by  high  and  generous  motives ;  and  apxious  to  court 
the  favor  of  their  wealthy  master's  heir,  they  soon  found  that 
the  best  way  to  worm  themselves  into  his  good  graces,  was  to 
treat  me  with  disrespect.  The  taunts  and  blows  of  my  tyranni- 
cal cousin,  though  hard  to  bear,  never  wounded  me  so  keenly  as 
the  sneers  and  whispered  remarks  of  these  worldly,  low-bred 
domestics.  Their  conduct  clenched  the  iron  of  dependence  into 
my  very  soul. 

It  was  vain  for  my  ftunt  to  remonstrate  with  her  son  on  his 
ungenerous  conduct ;  her  authority  with  him  was  a  mere  cipher, 
ho  had  his  father  upon  his  side,  and  for  my  aunt's  sake,  I 
forbore  to  complain. 


*--- 


22 


TBK     MONO  TONS. 


).,>♦«»    >  ij,*  >A  ,- 

:.,;fVt-H'.»- 

i.    '^    ' 

'^''f      --y'---      '•'.         t*     •»<           jt^*«          HV 

^jW'     •■'■•i'.<  ,>+>.  r.     ( 

1    H    t    »          '           I 

»     '( 

'•   •   .■'■■,••    f  ■  (^K  ,n-<.ii'H\:i,^< 

-  ,,....  ,„  •/>    i" *?•(•', 'V-*   :,i    ■'•J' 

■  ■>'■  t : 

.-  .;( 

V«,    j'.C        M-.  v.           ,Vn''. 

t!;-/,V  j'>  ^  »■''  .      •'  ■■''..  ■ 

-  »■■ 

-  ,■ 

'*-■'>.     '■'*.::■    ..),      .'i^'    ■ 

'  '        -'?  '  ■         "■•'  ■»-                '        ■' 

» ,  •  "*'.- 

•  :     ^,-^  -'   •                  ■  '^"r" 

*^:s5l*i-  .i,v»i' .    '•«'  ■  ■ 

.  •  •■••       f,           '*" 

CHAPTER     IV. 


THE  TUTOR. 


^  \ 


My  uncle  did  not  send  us  to  school,  but  engaged  a  youn/ 
man  of  mean  birth,  but  good  classical  attainments,  to  act  in  the 
capacity  of  tutor  to  his  son,  and  as  an  act  of  especial  favor, 
which  fact  was  duly  impressed  upon  me  from  day  to  day,  I  was 
allowed  the  benefit  of  his  instructions. 

Mr.  Jones,  though  a  good  practical  teacher,  was  a  weak, 
,  mean  creature,  possessing  the  very  soul  of  a  sneak.  He  soon 
discovered  that  the  best  way  to  please  his  elder  pupil  was  to 
neglect  and  treat  me  ill.  He  had  been  engaged  on  a  very 
moderate  salary  to  teach  one  lad,  and  he  was  greatly  annoyed 
when  Mr.  Moncton  introduced  me  into  his  presence,  coldly 
remarking,  "  that  I  was  an  orphan  son  of  his  brother — a  lad 
thrown  upon  his  charity,  and  it  would  add  very  little  to  Mr. 
Jones's  labors  to  associate  me  with  Theophilus  in  his  studies." 

Mr.  Jones  was  poor  and  friendless,  and  had  to  make  his  own 
way  in  the  world.  He  dared  not  resent  the  imposition,  for  fear 
of  losing  his  situation,  and  while  outwardly  he  cheerfully 
acquiesced  in  Mr.  Moncton's  proposition,  he  conceived  a  violent 
prejudice  against  me,  as  being  the  cause  of  it. 

He  was  a  spiteful,  irritable,  narrow-minded  man  ;  and  I  soon 
found  that  any  attempt  to  win  his  regard,  or  conciliate  him,  was 
futile  :  he  had  made  up  his  mind  to  dislike  me,  and  he  did  so 
with  a  hearty  good  will  that  no  att??ntion  or  asaiduity  on  my 
part  could  overcome. 

Theophilus,  who,  like  his  father,  professed  a  great  insight  into 
character,  read  that  of  his  instructor  at  a  glance;  and  despis- 


THE     MUNOTUNS. 


28 


ed  him  accordingly.  But  Tbeophilus  was  vain  and  fond  of  ad- 
miration, and  could  not  exist  without  satellites  to  moYo  around 
him,  and  render  him  their  homage  as  to  a  superior  luminary. 
He  was  a  magnificent  pay-master  to  his  sneaks  ;  and  bound 
them  to  him  with  the  strongest  of  all  ties — his  purse  strings. 

Mr.  Moncton,  always  allowed  this  lad  a  handsome  sum 
monthly  for  his  own  private  expenses  ;  and  fond  as  he  was  of 
money,  he  never  inquired  of  the  haughty  arrogant  boy,  the 
manner  in  which  he  disposed  of  his  pocket  money.  He  might 
save  or  spend  it  as  inclination  prompted — he  considered  it  a 
necessary  outlay  to  give  his  sou  weight  and  influence  with 
others  ;  and  never  troubled  himself  about  it  again.         ''* 

Theophilus  soon  won  over  Mr.  Jones  to  his  interest,  by  a  few 
judicious  presents  ;  while  he  fostered  his  dislike  to  me,  by  in- 
forming him  of  circumstances  regarding  my  birth  and  family, 
with  which  I  never  became  acquainted  until  some  years  after- 
wards. At  this  distance  of  time,  I  can  almost  forgive  Mr.  Jpnes, 
for  the  indifference  and  contempt  he  felt  for  his  junior  pupil. 

Influenced  by  these  feelings,  he  taught  me  as  little  as  he  could; 
but  I  had  a  thirst  for  knowledge,  and  he  could  not  hinder  me 
from  Ustening  and  profiting  by  his  instructions  to  my  cousin. 
Fortunately  for  me,  Theophilus  did  not  possess  either  a  brilliant 
or  inquiring  mind.  Learning  was  very  distasteful  to  him  ;  and 
Mr.  Jones  had  to  repeat  his  instructions  so  often,  that  it  ena- 
bled me  to  learn  them  by  heart.  Mr.  Jones  flattered  and  coaxed 
his  indolent  pupil ;  but  could  not  Induce  him  to  take  any  interest 
in  his  studies,  so  that  I  soon  shot  far  ahead  of  him,  greatly  to 
the  annoyance  of  both  master  and  pupil ;  the  former  doing  his 
best  to  throw  every  impediment  in  my  way.        ♦  ■■-      •     •  >* '  - 

I  resented  the  injustice  of  this  conduct  with  much  warmth, 
and  told  him,  "  that  I  would  learn  in  spite  of  him ;  I  had  mas- 
tered the  first  rudiments  of  Latin  and  Mathematics,  and  I  could 
now  teach  myself  all  that  I  wanted  to  know." 

This  boast  was  rather  premature,     I  found  the  task  of  self- 


'■■^- 


24 


T  11  K      M  U  N  C  T  U  N  S 


instruction  less  easy  than  I  anticipated.  I  was  in  Mr.  Jones's 
power — and  he  meanly  withheld  from  me  the  booice  necessary 
to  my  further  advanccmeut.  '  '^  *    * 

^  I  now  found  myself  at  a  stand-still.  I  threatened  Mr.  Jonee 
I  would  complain  to  my  uncle  of  his  unjustifiable  conduct.  ■''■>' 
^■'  The  idea  seemed  greatly  to  amuse  him  and  my  cousin — they 
laughed  in  my  face,  and  dared  me  to  make  the  experiment. 

I  flew  to  my  aunt. 
'  She  told  mo  to  be  patient  and  conceal  my  resentment  ;  and 
she  would  supply  the  books  and  stationery  I  required,  from  her 
own  purse.         ' 

■'  I  did  not  like  this.  I  was  a  blunt  straight-forward  boy  ;  'od 
I  thought  that  my  aunt  was  afraid  to  back  me  in  ^v'hat  I  knew 
to  be  right.     I  told  her  so.  \\ 

"  True,  Geoffrey.  But  in  this  house  it  is  useless  to  oppose 
force  to  force.     Your  only  safe  course  is  non-resistance." 

"  That  plan  I  never  can  adopt.  It  is  truckling  to  evil,  aunt. 
No  ultimate  good  can  spring  from  it." 

"  But  great  troubi*.  u,nd  pain  may  be  avoided,  Geoffrey." 
'"  "  Aunt,  I  will  aot  Eubmit  to  Mr.  Jones's  mean  tyranny  ;  I 
feel  myself  aggrieved  ;  I  must  speak  out  and  have  it  off  my 
mind.     I  will  go  this  instant  to  Mr.  Moncton  and  submit  the 
case  to  him." 

"  Incur  his  displeasure — no  trifle  at  any  time,  Geoffrey — and 
have  Theophilus  and  Mr.  Jones  laughing  at  you.  They  can  tell 
your  uncle  what  story  they  please :  and  which  is  he  most  likely 
to  believe,  your  statement  or  theirs  ?'" 

"  He  is  a  clever  man.  Let  them  ay  v  \  •<  'hey  lik^  '^t  is  not 
so  easy  to  deceive  him  ;  he  will  juugo  ior  iiimself.  He  would 
know  that  I  was  in  the  right,  even  if  he  did  not  choose  to  say 
so  ;  and  that  would  be  some  satisfaction,  although  he  might 
take  their  part." 

My  aunt  was  surprised  at  my  boldness  ;  she  looked  me  long 
and  earnestly  in  the  face.  :..      .,       .        ,,         *<r.i^-::' 


THR     MO  NGTO  SB. 


25 


es'B 
,ary 

OQ80 

.."J  ' 

■they 

•  and 
11  hev 


a 


Qd 


oppose 
lI,  aunt. 

:y." 

anny  ;  ^ 
off  my 
»mlt  tUe 

,.gy — -and 
can  tell 
[ost  Utely 

•t  is  noL 
lue  would 

\e  to  say 
be  mig^* 


me 


long 


"  Qeoffirey,  yonr  argnment  is  the  best.  Honesty  ts  tW  right 
policy,  after  all  I  ^iah  T  had  the  moral  courage  to  act  op  to 
it  at  all  times.  But,  ray  dear  boy,  when  you  are  the  slave  of  a 
yiolent  and  de<  itful  man,  yonr  only  chance  for  a  qniot  hfo  is  to 
fight  him  with  his  own  weapons."      ^      ,    i.,  t,;j|i,j^^j^., 

"Wrong  again,  auu,"  I  cried  vehemently.  "That  would 
make  me  as  bad  as  him.  No,  no,  that  plan  would  not  do  for 
me.  I  shonld  betray  myself  every  minute,  and  become  con- 
temptible in  his  eyes  and  my  own.  It  strikes  rac,  although  I  am 
but  a  boy  of  twelve,  and  know  little  of  the  world,  that  the  only 
real  chance  you  have  with  such  men  is,  to  show  them  that  yoa 
are  not  afraid  of  them.  Bullies  are  all  cowards,  aunt ;  tl  ey 
will  yield  to  courage  which  they  feel  to  be  superior  to  their 
own.  So  much  I  have  learnt  from  the  c.xnerience  of  the  last 
four  years." 

Aunt  made  no  reply;  she  smiled  sadly  and  kindly  upon  Aie, 
and  her  tacit  approval  sent  me  directly  to  my  uncle.  He  watf 
in  his  private  office.    I  knocked  gently  at  the  uoor.    ,,;,    ;  i 

"  Come  in." 

I  did  so ;  and  there  I  stood,  not  a  little  confused  and  per- 
plexed before  him,  with  flushed  cheeks  and  a  fast-throbbing 
heart.  It  was  the  first  complaint  I  had  ever  m;  de  to  him  in 
my  life — the  first  time  I  had  ever  dared  to  enter  his  sandim 
sanctorum;  and  I  remained  tongue-tied  upon  the  threshold, 
without  knowing  how  to  begin.  I  thought  he  would  have 
looked  me  down.  I  felt  the  blood  receding  from  my  f  ice  beneath 
his  cold  gaze,  as  he  said — 

"  Geoffrey,  what  do  you  want  here  ?" 

"  I  came,  sir,"  I  at  last  faltered  out,  "  to  make  a  complaint 
against  Mr.  Jones." 

''  I  never  listen  to  complaints  brought  by  a  pupil  against  his 
teacher,"  he  cried,  in  a  voice  that  made  me  recoil  over  the  door- 
step. •*  Begone,  sir  !  If  you  come  into  my  presence  again  on 
SQch  an  errand,  I  will  spurn  you  from  the  room." 

2 


«Ho 


'Iti 


S0 


THK     IIONCTONS 


This  speech,  meant  to  intimidate  me,  restored  my  coarage.  I 
felt  the  hot  blood  rush  to  my  face  in  a  fiery  flood. 

"  Hear  me,  sir.  Did  not  you  place  me  under  his  care  in  order 
that  I  might  learn  ?"  ' 

"And  you  refuse  to  do  so  ?"  '         ., 

"  No,  sir  :  the  reverse  is  the  case  :  he  refuses  to  teach  me, 
and  deprives  me  of  my  books,  so  that  I  cannot  teach  my- 
self." ■ 

"A  very  probable  tale,"  sneered  Mr.  Moncton  ;  then  rising 
from  the  table  at  which  he  was  seated,  he  cried  out  hastily,  "  Is 
Mr.  Jones  in  the  study  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"Then,  my  new  client,  come  along  with  me.  I  will  soon 
learn  the  truth  of  your  case."  ,,  . 

He  clutched  me  by  the  arm,  which  he  grasped  so  tightly  that 
I  could  scarcely  resist  a  cry  of  pain,  and  hurried  me  out.  In  the 
study  we  found  Theophilus  and  Mr.  Jones  :  the  one  lounging  on 
two  chairs,  the  other  smoking  a  cigar  and  reading  a  novel.  Mr. 
Moncton  stood  for  a  moment  in  the  door-way,  regarding  the 
pair  with  his  peculiar  glance. 

"  Gentlemen,  you  seem  pleasantly  and  profitably  employed !" 

"  Our  morning  tasks  are  concluded,"  said  Theophilus,  return- 
ing the  stare  of  scrutiny  with  a  steady  lie.  "  '  Too  much  work 
would  make  Jack  a  dull  boy.' " 

His  father  smiled  grimly.  How  well  he  understood  the  char- 
acter of  his  son. 

"  Here  is  a  lad,  Mr,  Jones,  who  complains  that  you  not  only 
refuse  to  teach  him,  but  deprive  him  of  his  books." 

"  He  tells  the  truth,  sir,"  returned  that  worthy,  casting  upon 
me  a  spiteful,  sidelong  glance,  which  seemed  to  say  more  elo- 
quently than  words,  "You  shall  see,  master  Geoffrey,  what 
you'll  get  by  tale  bearing.  I'll  match  you  yet."  "  I  have 
withheld  his  books,  and  refused  my  instructions  for  the  past 
week,    as    a    punishment    for    his   insolent  and  disrespectful 


TRR     MONCTONS 


21 


I 

rder 


my- 

rising 
;-  "  Is 


II  soon 

tly  tbat 
Intbe 
nging  on 
i\.     Hr. 
ding  tbe 

LoyedV 
IS,  return- 
^acb  work 

the  char- 
not  only 

[sting  «po» 
\  more  clo- 
|ffrey,  w^^a,t 
«<  I  have 
|or  the  past 
lisrespectful 


condact  to  your  son  and  me ;  to  say  nothing  of  his  impcrtineDt 
speeches  regarding  you,  sir,  who  are  bis  guardian  and  bene- 
factor." 

"  Do  you  hear  that — sir! "  said  my  uncle,  giving  me  a  vio- 
lent blow  on  my  cheek,  and  flinging  me  from  him.  "  When  next 
yon  come  to  me  with  such  tales,  you  shall  not  leave  your  bed  for 
a  week."  ■     ' : 

I  sprang  from  the  floor,  where  his  blow  had  sent  me  ;  and 
stood  erect  before  him.  It  was  a  pigmy  confronting  a  giant  ; 
but  my  blood  was  boiling.  I  had  lost  all  control  over  myself. 
"  It  is  a  lie  1"  I  cried,  shaking  my  fist  at  Mr.  Jones.  "  A  mon- 
strous falsehood  !  He  knows  it  is.  Theophilus  knows  it  is.  I 
have  been  falsely  accused  and  unjustly  punished  ;  I  will  remem- 
ber that  blow  to  my  dying  day.  I  will  never  forget  nor  for- 
give it." 

"  And  who  cares,  my  hero,  for  your  impotent  rage?"  My  un- 
cle seized  me  by  my  thick  curling  hair,  and  turned  round  my 
face,  hot  with  passion  and  streaming  with  tears  of  rage,  to  the 
gaze  of  my  sneering  enemies.  "  I  will  make  you  know,  that  you 
are  in  my  house  and  in  my  power — and  you  shall  submit  to  my 
authority,  and  the  authority  of  those  I  choose  to  place  over  you." 

I  struggled  desperately  in  his  herculean  grasp  in  order  to  free 
myself.  He  laughed  at  my  impotent  rage  and  then  threw  me 
on  the  floor — and  this  time,  I  was  quiet  enough. 

When  I  recovered  my  senses,  I  found  myself  lying  upon  the 
bed  in  the  garret,  allotted  to  my  use.  My  aunt  was  sitting 
beside  me,  bathing  my  temples  with  vinegar  and  water.  "  Oh, 
aunt,"  I  sighed,  closing  my  eyes,  "  I  wish  I  were  dead!" 

"Hush,  Geoffrey.  You  brought  this  on  yourself.  I  told  you 
how  it  would  be." 

"  It  was  so  unjust,"  I  replied  with  bitterness. 

"And  you  were  so  rash.    You  will  be  wiser  another  time." 

"  When  I  am  as  wicked  as  my  persecutors." 

"No  need  of  quoting  others,  ray  son,  while  you  suffer  such  vie- 


S8 


THE     M0NCT0N8. 


lent  passions  to  master  yoa.  Listen  to  me,  my  child.  I 
known  your  nncle  for  years.  Have  seen  him  in  his  darkest  and 
stormiest  moods  ;  and  contrived  to  live  peaceably  with  him. 
Kay,  he  respects  me  more  than  he  does  any  one  else  in  the  world. 
Bnt  I  never  opposed  his  will.  He  is  not  a  man  to  be  trifled 
with — tears  and  complaints  are  useless.  You  cannot  toacb  his 
heart.  He  will  be  obeyed.  Left  to  himself,  he  may  become 
your  friend,  and  even  treat  you  with  a  certain  degree  of  kind- 
ness and  consideration.  But  if  you  auger  him,  he  never  for- 
gives, and  can  be  a  dreadful  enemy.  If  you  love  me,  Geoffrey, 
follow  my  advice  and  submit  to  his  authority  with  a  good 
grace.'*         . 

"I  will  try  not  to  hate  him  for  your  dear  sake.  I  can 
promise  no  more.''  I  kissed  her  hand  and  fell  back  exhausted 
on  my  pillow.  My  head  ached  dreadfully  from  the  ill-treatment 
I  had  received  ;  and  wounded  pride  made  my  heart  very  sore. 
It  was  only  on  her  account  that  I  could  control  the  deadly  and 
revengeful  feelings  I  cherished  against  him.  Theophilus  and 
Mr.  Jones,  I  considered  beneath  contempt. 


r 


I 


!-..    ■' 


:-.  .  ?■ 


CHAPTER    V. 


A    CHANGE    IN"    MY    PROSPECTS. 


I  WAS  surprised  at  receiving  a  message  from  Mr.  Moncton, 
the  next  day,  to  attend  him  in  his  private  oflfice.  I  went  to  him 
in  fear  and  trembling.  I  was  ill,  nervous  and  dispirited,  and 
cared  very  little  as  to  what  in  future  might  become  of  me. 

I  found  him  all  smiles  and  affability.  "  Geoffrey,"  he  said, 
holding  out  his  hand,  as  I  entered,  "  I  trust  you  have  received 


y-^ 


nn. 


V 


! 


THE     MONGTONS. 


i 


a  oseful  lesson. 


V- 


You  will  be  wise  to  lay  it  to  heart.  Mr.  Jones 
tells  me  that  you  write  a  good  bold  hand.  Give  me  a  specimen 
of  it.  Sit  down  at  the  table,  and  direct  that  letter  to  Messieurs 
Hanbury  and  Company,  Liverpool."  •  .,  .^^ 

I  did  as  I  was  commanded,  but  my  hand  trembled  with  ex- 
citement :  I  found  some  difficulty  in  steadying  the  pen.  He 
took  the  letter  and  looked  at  it  carefully,  muttering  as  he  did 
so — 

"  How  like  my  father's  hand.  Aye,  and  how  like  in  obsti- 
nacy of  purpose  ;  more  like  him  in  every  respect  than  his  own 
sons,"  Then  turning  to  me,  who  was  lost  in  wonder  at  this  sud- 
den change  in  his  manner  towards  me,  he  said,  "  This  is  well ; 
you  write  a  fair,  legible  hand  for  a  boy.  I  want  a  lad  in  my 
office  to  copy  writs  and  other  law  papers.  I  think  you  will  just 
do  for  that  purpose.  If  you  are  diligent  and  industrious,  after 
two  years'  trial,  I  will  article  you  to  myself.  How  old  are 
you?" 

"  Thirteen,  next  August." 

"  It's  young  ;  but  you  are  tall  and  manly  foi*  your  age.  You 
and  Theophilus  are  never  likely  to  agree  ;  it  is  best  for  you  to 
be  apart.  You  have  no  fortune  of  your  own.  I  will  give  you 
a  profession,  and  make  an  independent  man  of  you,  if  you  will 
try  for  the  future  to  be  a  docile  and  obedient  boy." 

I  promised  to  do  my  best.  He  then  bade  me  follow  him,  and 
leading  the  way  through  a  narrow  arched  passage,  he  introduced 
me  into  the  public  office,  where  the  large  business  in  which  he 
was  engaged  was  carried  on.  Though  I  had  been  four  years 
in  the  house,  I  had  never  seen  the  inside  of  this  office  before.  It 
was  a  spacious,  dark,  dirty,  apartment,  lighted  by  high,  narrow 
windows  of  ground  glass  ;  so  that  no  time  could  be  wasted  by 
the  junior  clerks  in  looking  out  into  the  street.  Several  pale, 
melancholy  men  were  seated  at  desks,  hard  at  work.  You  heard 
nothing  but  the  rapid  scratching  of  their  pens  against  the  parch- 
ment and  paper  on  which  they  were  employed.    When  Mr. 


l\<r- 


80 


THE     MUNCTONS. 


MonctOQ  entered  the  office,  a  short,  stoat,  middle-aged  man 
swung  himself  round  on  his  high  stool  and  fronted  us  ;  but  the 
moment  he  recognized  his  superior,  he  rose  respectfully  to  receive 
him. 

Mr.  Moncton  took  him  apart,  and  they  entered  into  a  deep 
and  earnest  conversation :  of  which,  I  am  certain,  from  the  sig- 
nificant glances  which,  from  time  to  time,  they  directed  towards 
me,  I  formed  the  principal  topic. 

At  length  the  conference  was  over,  and  my  uncle  left  the 
office  without  giving  me  a  parting  word  or  glance.  When  he 
was  fairly  out  of  hearing,  all  the  clerks  gathered  round  me. 

"Who  is  he?" 

"  Mr.  Moncton's  nephew,"  was  the  short  man's  reply  to  the 
eager  questioners. 

"  Is  he  sent  here  to  be  a  spy  ?"         . 

"  To  learn  the  profession." 

"Thxtt  hale !  Is  the  man  mad.  It  will  kill  the  child  to  chain 
him  to  the  desk  all  day." 

"  Poor  fellow  ;  he  is  the  orphan  son  of  his  brother,"  said 
another.     "  I  have  seen  him  at  church  with  Mrs.  Moncton." 

"  Well,  Robert  Moncton  is  a  hard  man,"  said  a  third. 

"  Hush,  gentlemen,"  interposed  Mr.  Bassett,  the  senior  clerk. 
"  It  is  not  right  to  make  such  remarks  in  the  lad's  hearing.  Mr. 
Moncton,  doubtless,  does  for  the  best.  Come,  my  little  fellow, 
you  and  I  must  be  good  friends.  Your  uncle  has  placed  you 
under  my  charge,  to  initiate  you  into  all  the  mysteries  of  the 
law.  I  have  no  doubt  we  shall  get  on  famously  together.  But 
you  must  be  diligent  and  work  hard.  Your  uncle  hates  idlers  ; 
he  is  a  strict  master,  but  one  of  the  ablest  lawyers  in  London. 
Let  me  tell  you,  that  to  be  articled  to  him  is  a  fortune  in  itself." 

A  far-off,  indistinct  hope  of  freedom  through  this  channel, 
presented  itself  to  my  bewildered  mind.  I  thanked  Mr.  Bassett 
warmly  for  his  proflfered  aid,  and  told  him  that  I  would  do  my 
best  to  deserve  his  good  opinion. 


'jif 


T  U  K     M  O  N  C  T  O  N  S  . 


hi 


^ 


From  that  day,  I  became  an  office  drndge,  condemned  to 
copy  the  same  unintelligible,  uninteresting  law  forms,  from  early 
morning  until  late  at  night.  Mr.  Bassett,  a  quiet,  methodical, 
business  man,  was  kind  in  his  own  peculiar  way.  He  had  a 
large  family,  and  perhaps  felt  a  paternal  sympathy  in  my  early 
introduction  to  the  labors  and  cares  of  life.  He  often  com- 
mended my  diligence,  and  mentioned  me  in  very  handsome  terms 
to  Mr,  Moncton  ;  but  from  that  gentleman  I  never  received  a 
word  of  praise — weeks  and  mouths  often  passed  without  his 
speaking  to  me.  I  was  even  debarred  from  spending  with  my 
dear  aunt  that  blessed  twilight  hour,  which  had  proved  the 
chief  solace  of  my  weary  life. 

Constant  confinement  to  that  close  office  preyed  upon  my 
health  and  spirits  ;  I  became  fretful  and  irritable,  the  color  left 
my  cheeks,  and  my  eyes  looked  dull  and  heavy.  The  clerks, 
mostly  kind  to  me,  all  pitied  me,  though  they  dared  not  openly 
show  their  regard.  They  brought  me  presents  of  fruit  and 
sweetAeats,  and  one  who  lived  in  the  suburbs  used  to  delight 
my  heart,  every  now  and  then,  with  a  rich  bouquet  of  flowers. 
Their  beauty  and  perfume  brought  back  a  glimpse  of  the  old 
times — dim  visions  of  lawns  and  gardens,  of  singing-birds  and 
humming-bees ;  of  a  fair  smiling  creature  who  led  me  by  the 
hand  through  those  bowers  of  enchantment,  and  called  me  her 
Geoflfrey— her  darling  boy. 

When  such  thoughts  came  over  me,  my  hand  trembled,  and  I 
could  not  see  the  parchment  I  was  copying  through  my  tears  ; 
but  for  all  that,  the  sight  of  the  flowers  was  always  inexpressi- 
bly dear,  and  I  prized  them  beyond  every  other  gift.  '*' 

I  had  been  about  eighteen  months  in  the  office,  when  my  good 
Aunt  Rebecca  died — an  event  sudden  and  unexpected  by  all. 
I  was  allowed  to  see  her  in  her  last  moments  ;  to  sob  out  my 
full  heart  by  her  death-bed.  Her  last  words  were  an  earnest 
request  to  ber  husband  to  be  kind  to  poor  Geoffrey,  for  her  sake 
— she  died — and  I  felt  myself  aloue  and  friendless  in  the  world. 


n 


THE     MON  CTONg. 


ji  ^j*!i\^.u:!t  «J;»t/;{a  'tJ^n«ti>h 


,       CHAPTER    VI. 


*^  T^E     S09BQWS     OF     DfyjINfiENpiSy    ,.    ^^,«..«, 

My  heart  sickens  over  this  dreary  portioa  of  my  childhood. 
I  have  heard  it  called  the  happiest  season  of  life.  To  me  it  bad 
few  joys.  It  was  a  gloomy  period  of  mental  suffering  and  bodily 
fatigae  j  of  unnatural  restraint  and  painful  probation. 

The  cold,  authoritative  manner  of  my  unclp,  at  all  times 
irksome  and  repelling,  after  the  death  of  his  good  wife  became 
almost  insupportable ;  while  the  insolence  aqd  presumption  of 
his  artful  son,  goaded  a  free  and  irascible  spirit  like  mine 
almost  to  madness.  The  moral  force  of  bis  mother's  chayacter, 
though  unappreciated  by  him,  had  been  some  restraint  upon  hi9 
nnamiable,  tyrannical  temper.  That  restraint  ^as  now  removed, 
and  Theophilus  considered  that  my  dependent  situation  gave 
him  a  lawful  right  to  my  services,  and  had  I  been  a  work-house 
apprentice  in  his  father's  house,  he  could  not  have  given  his 
commands  with  an  air  of  more  pointed  insolence.  My  obstinate 
resistance  to  his  authority,  and  my  desperate  struggles  to  eman- 
cipate myself  from  his  control,  produced  a  constant  war  of 
words  between  us  ;  and  if  I  appealed  to  my  uncle,  I  was  sure  to 
get  the  worst  of  it.  He  did  not  exactly  encourage  his  son  in 
this  ungenerous  line  of  conduct,  but  his  great  maxim  was  to 
divide  and  rule;  to  exact  from  all  who  were  dependent  upon 
him,  the  most  uncompromising  obedience  to  his  arbitrary  will ; 
and  he  laughed  at  my  remonstrances,  and  turned  my  indignation 
into  ridicule.   -/  -     -^      ;  /  ,^ 

I  was  daily  reminded,  particularly  before  strangers,  of  the 


^ 


k,i.  Jw,  *<j««»  «^i-"j««- 


i-«M{tMjHIDji      11    I  g 


THE     MONGTONS. 


domestic  calamities  that  had  made  me  dependent  npon  his  cold, 
extorted  charity  ;  while  I  was  reproached  with  my  want  of  gra- 
titude to  a  cruel  master.  ' 

Passion  and  wounded  pride  drew  from  me  burning  tears.  I 
felt  that  I  was  grooving  fierce  and  hard  like  my  persecutors,  and 
my  conscience,  yet  tender,  deplored  the  lamentable  change.  My 
heart,  crushed  beneath  the  sense  of  injustice  and  unmerited 
neglect,  was  closed  against  the  best  feelings  of  humanity,  and  I 
regarded  my  fellow  men  with  aversion  and  mistrust. 

These  bitter  and  desponding  feelings  deprived  my  nights  of 
rest — my  days,  of  hope.  When  the  morning  came  and  I  took  my 
stand  at  the  accursed  desk,  I  wished  the  doy  gone  ;  and  when 
night  released  me  from  the  abhorrent  task,  and  I  sought  my 
humble  garret,  I  sat  for  hours  at  the  open  window,  brooding 
over  my  wrongs. 

The  moonbeams  glittered  in  the  tears  that  anguish  wrung 
from  my  uptured  eyes.  The  stars  seemed  to  look  down  npon 
me  with  compassionate  earnestness.  Sometimes  my  young  spirit, 
carried  away  by  the  intense  love  I  felt  for  those  beautiful  eyes 
of  heaven,  forgot  for  awhile  the  sorrows  and  cares  of  lijfe  aad 
soared  far,  far  away  to  seek  for  sympathy  and  affection  in 
those  unknown  regions  of  light  and  purit/. 

I  had  few  opportunities  of  religious  instruction  in  this  tmly 
Godless  household.  My  nncle  never  attended  church  when  be 
could  avoid  the  obligation,  and  then,  only  to  keep  np  appearan- 
ces. A  religion  of  the  world — in  which  the  heart  had  no  part. 
There  was  always  a  Bible  in  the  office,  but  it  was  never  used, 
but  in  the  way  of  business  to  administer  oaths.  Whenever  I 
had  a  moment's  leisure  I  had  turned  over  the  pages  with  eager 
and  mysterious  curiosity,  but  the  knowledge  that  should  have 
brought  peace  and  comfort,  and  reconciled  me  to  my  dreary  lot, 
not  being  sought  for  in  the  right  spirit,  added  to  my  present 
despondency,  the  dread  of  future  punishment. 

Oh,  that  awful  fear  of  Hell.     How  it  darkened  with  its 

2* 


> 


MUM 


I       t 


84 


THE    UONCTON  8. 


.  ».  -.  t_.  1 1. 


unholy  shadow,  all  that  was  bright  and  beautiful  in  this  lower 
world.  ^^  u..ii  ^,  ,  *         ,.•,-'.     ,         *     " 

I  had  yet  to  learn,  that  perfect  love  casteth  out  fear,  that  the 
great  Father  punishes  but  to  reform,  and  is  ever  more  willing 
to  save  than  to  condemn.  I  dared  not  seek  him,  lest  I  should 
hear  the  terrible  denunciation  thundered  against  the  wicked ; 
"  Depart  from  me,  ye  cursed." 

A  firm  trust  in  His  protecting  care  would  have  been  a  balm 
for  every  wound,  that  festered  and  rankled  at  my  heart's  core. 
Had  the  Christian's  hope  been  mine,  I  should  no  longer  have 
pined  under  that  dreary  sense  of  utter  loneliness,  which  for  many 
years  paralyzed  all  mental  exertions,  or  nurtured  in  my  breast 
the  stern  unforgiving  temper  which  made  me  regard  my  persecu- 
tors with  feelings  of  determined  hate. 

Residing  in  the  centre  of  the  busy  metropolis,  and  at  an  age 
when  the  heart  sighs  for  social  communion  with  its  fellows,  and 
imagines,  with  the  fond  sincerity  of  inexperienced  youth,  a  friend 
in  every  agreeable  companion,  I  was  immured  among  old  parch- 
ments and  dusty  records,  and  seldom  permitted  to  mingle  with 
the  guests  that  frequented  my  uncle's  house,  unless  my  presence 
was  required  to  sign  some  official  document. 

Few  persons  suspected  that  the  shabbily-dressed  silent  youth 
who  obeyed  Mr.  Moncton's  imperious  mandates  was  his  nephew — 
the  only  son  of  an  elder  brother — consequently  I  was  treated  as 
nobody  by  his  male  visitors,  and  never  noticed  at  all  by  the 
ladies. 

This  was  mortifying  enough  to  a  tall  lad  of  eighteen,  who 
already  fancied  himself  a  man.  Who,  though  meanly  dressed, 
and  sufficiently  awkward,  had  enough  of  vanity  in  his  composi- 
tion to  imagine  that  his  person  would  create  an  interest  in  his 
behalf  and  atone  for  all  other  deficiencies,  at  least  in  the  eyes 
of  the  gentler  sex — those  angels,  who  seen  at  a  distance,  were 
daily  becoming  objects  of  admiration  and  worship. 

Alas  !  poor  Geoffrey.    Thou  didst  not  know  in  that  thy  young 


i 

1 


i.i 


fl 


I 


Ik 


THE     MONOTONI, 


**i« 


day  the  thiDgs  pertaining  to  thy  peace.  Thoa  didst  not  suspect 
in  thy  innocence  how  the  black  brand  of  poverty  -^-m  deform  the 
finest  face,  and  dim  the  brightest  intellect  in  w  >  eyes  of  the 
world. 

Among  all  my  petty  trials  there  were  none  that  I  felt  more 
keenly  than  having  to  wear  the  cast-off  clothes  of  my  cousin. 
He  was  some  years  older,  but  his  frame  was  slighter  and  shorter 
than  mine,  and  his  garments  did  not  fit  me  in  any  way.  The 
coat  sleeves  were  short  and  tight,  and  the  trowsers  came  half- 
way up  my  legs.  The  figure  I  cut  in  these  unsuitable  garments 
was  so  ludicrous  that  it  was  a  standing  joke  among  the  clerks  in 


the  office. 


A  '  'L        ' 


"  When  you  step  into  your  cousin's  shoes,  Geoffrey,  we  hope 
they  will  suit  you  better  than  his  clothes."      *'-*f  v^vw  ,,;i*.,n  «.>» 

I  could  have  been  happy  in  the  coarsest  fustian  or  corderoy 
garment  that  I  knew  was  my  own.  I  believe  Robert  Moucton 
felt  a  malicious  pleasure  in  humbling  me  in  the  eyes  of  his 
people.  ^.  ,j,,.ii  4-»^  ^1 

My  uncle  had  fulfilled  his  promise,  and  I  had  been  articled  tc^ 
him,  when  I  completed  my  fourteenth  year  ;  and  I  now  eagerly 
looked  forward  to  my  majority,  when  I  should  be  free  to  quit 
his  employ,  and  seek  a  living  in  the  world. 

My  time  had  been  so  completely  engaged  in  copying  law 
papers,  that  I  had  not  been  able  to  pay  much  attention  to  the 
higher  branches  of  the  profession  ;  and  when  night  came,  and  I 
was  at  length  released  from  the  desk,  I  was  so  overpowered  by 
fatigue  that  I  felt  no  inclination  to  curtail  the  blessed  hours  of 
sleep  by  reading  dull  law  books.  Yet,  upon  this  all-important 
knowledge,  which  I  was  neglecting,  rested  my  only  chance  of 
independence.  , 

My  cousin  Theophilus  w^as  pursuing  his  studies  at  Oxford, 
and  rarely  visited  home,  but  spent  his  vacations  with  some 
wealthy  relatives  in  Yorkshire.  This  was  a  happy  time  for  me  ; 
for  of  all  my  many  trials  his  presence  was  the  greatest.  Even 
Mr.  Moncton  was  more  civil  to  me  in  the  absence  of  his  hopeful 
heir.    ■"' ^ ' ""    -••••    '■^^■''       v- --^-- .  n*,^% 


l\ 


fin 


THE     MONO  TUNS. 


Thus  time  glided  on  until  I  was  twenty  years  of  age,  and  fuU 
siz  feet  in  height,  and  I  could  lio  longer  wear  the  cast-off  suits 
of  my  cousin.  Mr.  Moncton,  in  common  decency,  was  at  length 
obliged  to  order  my  clothes  of  his  tailor  ;  but  he  took  good  care 
that  they  should  be  of  the  coarsest  description,  and  of  the  most 
unfashionable  cut.  The  first  suit  that  was  made  expiiessly  for 
me,  ridiculous  as  it  must  appear  to  my  readers,  gave  me  infinite 
satisfaction.     I  felt  proud  and  happy  of  the  acquisition. 

The  afternoon  of  that  memorable  day,  my  uncle  sent  for  me 
into  the  drawing-room  to  witness  the  transfer  of  some  law 
papers.  His  clients  were  two  ladies,  young  and  agreeable. 
While  I  was  writing  from  Mr.  Moncton's  dictation,  I  per- 
ceived, with  no  small  degree  of  trepidation,  that  the  younger 
was  regarding  me  with  earnest  attention  ;  and  in  spite  of  myru  If 
my  cheeks  flushed  and  my  hand  trembled.  After  my  part  of 
the  business  was  concluded  Mr.  Moncton  told  me  to  withdr&w. 
As  I  left  the  room,  I  heard  Miss  Mary  Beaumont  say,  in  a  low 
voice  to  her  sister — my  uncle  having  stepped  into  the  ac^oining 
apartment.—  -     ,.  ,^,  ^j    ;j 

"  What  a  handsome  young  man.    Who  is  he  ?'* 
,f"Oh,  the  clerk,  of  course." 

"  He  looks  a  gentleman." 

"  A  person  of  no  consequence,  by  his  shabby  drchis  and 
awkward  manners."  ^^  •^**':  '  ;  -  ,    ^     ,  y 

I  closed  the  door,  and  walked  hastily  away.  How  I  despised 
the  new  suit,  of  which,  a  few  minutes  before,  I  had  felt  so 
proud.  The  remarks  of  the  younger  lady  tingled  in  ray  ears 
for  weeks.  She  had  considered  me  worth  looking  at,  in  spite 
of  my  unfashionable  garments  ;  and  I  blessed  her  for  the 
amiable  condescension,  and  thought  her  in  return  as  beautiful 
as  an  angel.  I  never  saw  her  again — ^but  I  caught  myself 
scribbling  her  name  on  my  desk,  and  I  covered  many  sheets  of 
waste  paper  with  indifferent  rhymes  in  her  praise. 

This  confession  may  call  up  a  smile  on  the  lip  of  the  reader, 
and  I  am  content  that  h^  should  accuse  me  of  vanity.    But 


If  i.i 


>-■ 


;!V.";u;«' 


■i^i 


E  r 


't 


.'■:  ^9iti-^^f.  ■■ 


^*";  ^^ 


TUJB     MONOTUMtl. 


ai 


^         \ 


tl^ese  were  the  first  words  of  commcndaitioB   that  had  e 
reached  my  ears  from  the  lips  of  womao,  and  though  I  huv* 
gioce  laughed  heartily  at  the  deep  impression  they  made  on  iu> 
mind,  they  produced  a  beneficial  effect  at  the  time,  and  Uelped    . 
to  reconcile  me  to  my  lot.  '^''  '   -— -  —  --    ,  .,,      ^, 
.;  It  was  about  this  period,  that  Mr.  Bassett  left  the  office,  and 
went  iuto  the  profession  on  his  own  account.  The  want  of  means,    . 
and  marrying  imprudently  in  early  life,  had  hindered  him  from 
entering  it  sooner.     For  twenty  years  he  had  worked  as  a  clerk, 
when  he  was  fully  qualified  to  have  been  the  head  of  the  firm. 
The  death  of  an  uncle  who  left  him  a  small  property  unchained 
him  from  the  oar,  and  as  he  said,  "  Mode  a  man  of  him  at  last." 

Poor  little  man.  I  never  shall  forget  his  joy  when  he  got 
that  important  letter.  He  sprang  from  nis  desk,  upsetting  the 
high  stool  in  his  haste,  ftnd  shook  hands  with  us  all  roand, 
laughing  awl  crying  alternately. 

He  was  a  great  favorite  in  the  ofiBce,  and  we  all  rcyoiced  in  his 
good  fortune,  though  I  felt  sincerely  grieved  at  parting  with  him. 
He  had  been  a  kind  friend  to  me  when  X  had  no  friends  ;  and  X 
had  spent  some  quietly  happy  evenings  with  him  at  his  humble 
lodgings,  in  the  company  of  a  very  pretty  and,  amiable  wife. 
Going  to  visit  him  occasionally,  was  the  only  indulgence  I  had 
ever  been  allowed,  and  these  visits  were  not  permitted  to  be 
of  too  frequent  recurrence.  i-^t^a  m?f!*s  si  * 

He  saw  how  much  I  was  affected  at  bidding  him  good-bye*  ;^-y 

"  Geoffrey,"  he  said,  taking  me  by  the  hand  and  drawing  me  { 
aside — "  One  word  with  you  before  we  part.  I  know  your 
attachment  to  me  is  sincere.  Believe  me,  the  feeling  is  recipro- 
cated in  its  fullest  extent.  Your  uncle  is  not  your  friend.  Few 
men  act  wickedly  without  a  motive.  He  has  his  own  reasons 
for  treating  you  as  he  does.  I  cannot  enter  into  particulars 
here,  Nor  would  I,  even  if  time  and  opportunity  warranted, 
for  it  would  do  no  good.  Keep  your  eyes  open,  your  head 
clear — your  temper  cool,  and  your  tongue  silent,  and  you  will 


$ 


88 


TH  K    MONCTO  Ng . 


see  and  learn  much  withoni  the  interference  of  a  second  person. 
I  am  going  to  open  an  office  in  Nottingham,  my  native  town, 
and  if  ever  you  want  a  friend  in  the  honr  of  need,  come  to 
Josiah  Bassett  in  the  full  confidence  of  affection,  and  I  will  help 
you." 

This  speech  roused  all  my  curiosity.  I  pressed  him  eagerly  to 
tell  me  all  he  knew  respecting  mo  and  my  uncle,  but  he  refused 
to  satisfy  my  earnest  inquiries. 

The  departure  of  Mr.  Bassett,  which  I  regarded  as  a  cala> 
mity,  proved  one  of  the  most  fortunate  events  in  my  life. 

His  place  was  supplied   by  a  gentleman -of   the   name  of 
Harrison,  who  was  strongly  recommended  to  Mr.  Moncton  by 
his  predecessor  as  an  excellent  writer,  a  man  well  versed  in  the 
law,  sober  and  industrious,  and  in  whose  integrity  he  might 
place  the  utmost  reliance.     He  had^o  wish  to  enter  into  the 
profession,  but  only  sought  to  undertake  the  management  of  the 
office  as  head  clerk.     *-.  >.^.n,     ...^i^E^...         ......        :•.      ,.. 

.  Mr.  Moncton  was  a  man  that  never  associated  himself  with  a 
partner,  and  regarded  despotic  rule  as  the  only^one  that  deserved 
the  name.    ,**.«&},%  ^^.i,  .,,i,%4  -.^.ti-.u^.-,,.  ^'.■xi....\.  ..:?♦........;  ?  ...:  i 

■  When  Mr.  Harrison  was  introduced  in  proprid  persond,  he  did 
not  seem  to  realize  his  employer's  expectations — who,  from  Mr. 
Bassett's  description,  had  evidently  looked  for  an  older  and  more 
methodical  person,  and  was  disappointed  in  the  young  and  inter- 
esting individual  that  presented  himself.  But  as  he  required 
only  a  moderate  salary  for  his  services,  he  was  engaged  on  trial 
for  the  next  three  months,     •-'•jajc  »^*ti^  ihi<^i*ij3  ,n,i5«4<a  >=>«<, —\'f 

f'^ff^,i('^  'i,.'''*^f^'  '■i^^fh'    !V'*,''"T*  ■  ■. '^f''     •  fiV^'    "f     '*■:''■,<•■■    'f     I, '■■J''';     ■         i'    .''•   • 


A 


T  u  k:    u  o  n  c  t  u  n  a  . 


80 


9/  j_  -  vfc^  fir/il  b'jw-  -     '         '  '    '    ""-*  iiiw*:^  «itf^.- 

ks<b.  1  B»i  iixl      CHAPTER    VII.     —^  •'^  *^^  **^'  ***^ 

^.^:.   «    ^    K..iii<     OBOROE    HARRISOWV    v.  ...... 

George  Harrison  was  not  distinguished  by  any  remarkable 
talents;  or  endowed  with  that  aspiring  genius  that  forces  its 
way  through  every  obstacle,  and  places  the  possessor  above  the 
ordinary  mass  with  whom  he  is  daily  forced  to  associate. 

Yet,  his  was  no  common  character  ;  no  every  day  acquaint- 
ance, with  whom  we  may  spend  a  pleasant  hour,  and  care  not  if 
we  ever  meet  again  in  our  journey  through  life. 

The  moment  he  entered  the  office  my  heart  was  drawn  towards 
him  by  an  irresistible,  mysterious  impulse,  so  that  looking  upon 
him  I  loved  him,  and  felt  confident  that  the  friend  whom  I  had 
ardently  wished  to  obtain  for  so  many  hopeleos  years,  was  now 
before  me.  * 

This  impression  was  strengthened  by  the  simple,  unaffected, 
frank  manner  in  which  he  met  the  advances  of  the  other  clerks. 
There  was  a  charm  in  his  smile,  in  the  rich  tones  of  his  deep, 
mellow  voice,  that  made  me  anxious  to  catch  the  one,  and  hear 
the  other  again,  though  both  were  marked  by  quiet,  subdued 
Badness. 

His  face,  strictly  speaking,  could  not  be  called  handsome ; 
and  his  general  appearance  was  more  remarkable  for  a  refined 
and  gentlemanly  demeanor,  than  for  anything  particularly  strik- 
ing in  form  or  feature.  A  good  head,  fine  intelligent  hazel  eyes, 
and  a  profusion  of  curling  dark  brown  hair,  redeemed  his  coun- 
tenance from  mediocrity  ;  but  its  careworn,  anxious  expression. 


40 


THE     MONCTOXS. 


ll 


showed  too  clearly,  that  some  great  life-sorrow,  had  blighted  the 
early  promise  of  youth  and  hope. 

It  was  some  days  before  I  had  an  opportunity  of  becoming 
better  acquainted  with  him.  We  were  preparing  for  the  spring 
assizes,  and  there  was  work  enough  in  the  office  to  have  em- 
ployed twice  the  number  of  hands.  Nothing  was  heard 
but  the  Bcratchmg  of  pens  upon  paper,  from  early  day  until 
midnight. 

At  last  the  hurry  was  over,  and  we  had  more  leisure  to  look 
about  us.  Mr.  Moncton  was  attending  a  country  circuit,  and 
his  watchful  eye  was  no  longer  upon  us.  The  clerks  were  absent 
at  dinner  ;  Mr.  Harrison  «nd  I  were  alone  in  the  office,  which 
he  never  left  till  six,  when  he  returned  to  his  lodgings  in  Char- 
lotte street  to  dine  ;  and  unless  there  happened  to  be  a  great 
stress  of  business  which  required  his  presence,  we  saw  him  no 
more  that  night. 

After  regarding  me  for  some  minutes  with  an  earnest  scrutiny 
which,  impulsive  creature  that  I  was,  almost  offended  me,  he 
said — 

*'  Am  I  mistaken,  or  is  your  name  really  Moncton  ?"  '  ^  -    "■ 

**  Really  and  truly,  Geoffrey.  Moncton,  at  your  service. 
What  made  you  doubt  the  fact  ?" 

"  I  had  always  heard  that  Mr.  Robert  Moncton  had  but  one 


» 


BOO. 

"  Surely  there  is  enough  of  the  breed,  without  your  wishing 
to  affiliate  me  upon  him.  I  flatter  myself  that  we  do  not  in  the 
least  resemble  each  other.  And  as  to  the  name,  I  have  so  little 
respect  for  it,  for  his  sake,  that  I  wish  some  one  would  leave  m© 
a  fortune  to  change  it ;  for,  between  ourselves,  I  have  small 
reason  to  love  it.  He  is  my  uncle — my  father's  younger  brother 
— and  I  find  the  relationship  near  enough."  '"'      ''  "" 

This  explanation  led  to  a  brief  sketch  of  my  painful,  though 
uneventful  history,  to  which  Mr.  Harrison  listened  with  an  air 
of  such  intense  interest  that,  though  it  flattered  my  vanity,  not 


\ 


THE     MOM  GT0M8 


J- 

41 


a  little  surprised  me.  When  I  concladed,  he  grasped  my  hand 
firmly,  muttering  to  himself —         .;  ,  -im  ^jf?  v?  ;  ^  ^j^jl  j  io  ?^  fi% 

"  It  is  like  him— just  like  him.    The  inferual  scoundrel  P'  <i 

"  What  do  yon  know  about  him  ?"  said  I,  astonished  at  the 
excited  state  into  which  my  revelations  had  thrown  him.    ,  -'^*^' 

"  Only  too  much,"  he  responded,  with  a  heavy  sigh  ;  and 
sinking  back  in  his  chair,  pressed  his  hands  to  his  head,  like  one 
who  wished  to  shut  out  painful  recollections,  while  I  continued 
to  grasp  ills  arm  and  stare  at  him  in  blank  amazement.  At 
length,  rousing  himself,  he  said  with  a  faint  smile, —        -w  •;      - 

"  Don't  make  big  eyes  at  me,  Geoflfrey.  I  cannot  tell  you  all 
yoti  wish  to  know.  At  some  other  time,  and  in  some  other 
place,  I  will  repay  the  confidence  you  have  reposed  in  me,  and 
satisfy  your  queries  ;  but  not  here — not  in  the  lion's  den." 

"  For  heaven's  sake,  don't  keep  silent  now,"  I  cried.  "  You 
have  roused  my  curiosity  to  such  an  extravagant  pitch,  that  I 
shall  go  mad  if  you  hold  your  tongue.    You  WALst  speak  out." 

**I  im^t  not,  if,  by  so  doing,  I  ruin  your  prospects  and  my 
own.  Be  satisfied,  Geoffrey,  that  I  am  your  friend  ;  that  hence- 
forth I  will  regard  you  as  a  brother,  and  do  all  in  my  power  to 
lighten  and  shorten  your  present  bondage."  ..„ ,. 

"I  threw  myself  by  an  irrepressible  impulse  into  his  arras. 
He  pressed  me  to  his  heart ;  and  the  generous  assurance  he 
gave  me  of  a  warm  and  affectionate  sympathy  in  my  destiny, 
nearly  atoned  for  twenty  years  of  sorrow  and  degradation.  The 
intense  desire  I  felt  to  deserve  his  esteem,  made  me  anxious  to 
cultivate  my  mind,  which  I  had  suffe;'ed  to  lie  waste.  Harrison 
kindly  offered  his  aid,  and  supplied  me  with  books.  I  now 
devoted  myself  with  zeal  to  the  task  ;  for  the  first  time  I  had  a 
motive  for  exertion  ;  I  no  longer  vegetated ;  I  had  a  friend, 
and  my  real  life  commenced  from  that  day.  I  set  apart  two 
hours  each  night  for  reading  and  study,  and  soon  felt  a  keen 
relish  for  the  employment. 

"  In  these  lie  your  best  hope  of  independence,  Geoflfrey,"  said 


X 


\, 


;*^)jf*;.'is:3rr! 


X 


42 


THE     MONCTONS. 


:  ■  -i. 


my  kind  friend,  laying  his  hand  upon  a  pile  of  books,  which,  for 
lack  of  a  table,  he  placed  upon  the  truck  bed  in  my  mean  garret. 
y  Then  seating  himself  beside  me  on  the  shabby  couch,  he  pro- 
ceeded to  examine,  by  the  light  of  a  miserable  tallow  candle,  a 
translation  I  had  been  making  from  the  Orations  of  Cicero. 
**  With  your  talents,  Geoffrey,  you  need  not  fear  the  tyranny  of 
any  man.  It  will  be  your  own  fault  if  you  do  not'  rise  in  the 
profession  you  have  chosen."  *.  ,^^  ,,  ^,.,  (%  .-.<,.,  *,  -,.4    .iff*' 

"  The  choice  was  none  of  mine."       '*  ^      '       »•       c 

J^'-:    "  Then  be  grateful  to  your  uncle  for  once,  in  having  chosen  it 

for  you."    .4..Ia.«^-...-..,    !'^.f.;..4*  *-    ■.^'^.  V:,    .•^'.  .      '-.    .,-rt   «.,    ■-   •:'-An^{|-oM; 

"*  ^  VDo  you  expect  impossibilities  ?"  and  I  smiled  bitterly.     -»- 

.  *' Not  exactly.  Yet,  Geoffrey,  many  things  that  appear  at 
first  sight  impossible,  only  require  a  series  of  persevering  efforts 
to  become  both  easy  and  practicable.  You  might  render  your 
unpleasant  position  with  your  uncle  more  tolerable,  by  yielding 
to  his  authority  with  a  better  grace.  The  constant  opposition 
you  make  to  his  wishes,  is  both  useless  and  dangerous.  .  Though 
you  neither  love  nor  respect  him,  and  I  should  be  sorry  if  you 
could  do  either,  yet,  he  is  entitled  to  obedience,  and  a  certain 
degree  of  deference  as  your  guardian  and  master."         *i  ,iWi,.L,v 

M**  I  never  can  willingly  obey  him,"  I  cried,  angrily,  "  or  bring 
my  mind  to  submit  to  his  authority."     .  ,jj  ►.   mv,  .  «     ,«i.r.i  ;>.    V.', 

J  •/'  In  which,  I  assure  you,  as  a  friend,  you  are  wrong.     As  long 
as  his  commands  do  not  interfere  with  any  moral  obligation,  you 
are  bound  to  listen  to  them  with  respect."  «  ^.^  ,^.  ,^^.  i    ,i;rf  m.,  ., 
"  The  man  has  always  been  my  enemy,  and  would  you  have 
me  become  a  passive  instrument  in  his  hands  ?"     ,4  tkii&sA.^  si» 

■t/'  Certainly,  as  long  as  you  remain  his  clerk,  and  he  does  not 
require  your  aid  in  any  villainous  transaction.  If  his  intentions 
towards  you  are  evil,  you  cannot  frustrate  them  better  than  by 
doing  your  duty.  Believe  me,  Geoffrey,  you  have  a  more  dan- 
gerous enemy  to  contend  with,  one  bound  to  you  by  nearer  ties, 
who  exercises  a  more  pernicious  influence  over  your  mind." 


*;  i' ><?;«>: 


MMMI 


A 


^ 


/• 


THE     MONCTONS 


«f* 


"  His  sordid,  seltish,  counterpart— his  wor%  son  ?*'    "  - '""^  T«^ 

George  shook  his  head.      ^ ,      .;^. -^ -'.>-/•  ♦'iw'i*'^'v 

I  looked  inquiringly.  *'^*  '**^'  ■?'^'**^'  U"' t^jvii*  '^^aafl«<'*  0*sui*^i^ 

,    "A  certain  impetuous,   willful,   wrong-headed  boy,  yclept  * 
Geoffrey  Monctou."  ,^     -,;.;.;     ,   ..  ^..,,;^„,.,.^; 

"Pish  1"  I  exclaimed,  shrugging  my  shoulders  ;  "is  this  your  ' 
friendship?"  ..        -  -   -^    ^,^-.  ..... 

"  The  best  proof  I  can  give  you  of  it."  '    '  <r'  J*^Vk^,  ? 

I  walked  hastily  to  and  fro,  the  narrow  limits  of  the  chatribier, 
raising,  at  every  step,  a  cloud  of  dust  from  folds  of  old,  yellow    . 
parchment  and  musty  rolls  of  paper,  that  had  accumulated  there  ^ 
for  the  last  half  century,  and  lay  in  a  pile  upon  the  floor.     I  was 
in  no  humor  to  listen  to  a  lecture,  particularly  when  my  own 
faulty  temper  was  to  be  the  principal  subject,  and  form  the  text. 
Harrison  watched  my  movements  for  some  time  in  silence,  with  -^ 
a  provokiugly-amused  air  ;  not  in  the  least  discouraged  by  my  J»^ 
wayward  mood  ;  but  evidently  ready  for  another  attack.  '^^ 

"  Prithee,  Geoffrey,  leave  off  raising  that  cloud  of  dust,  dis-  ?. 
turbing  the  evil  spirits  that  have  long  slumbered  in  yon  forgot*  ,' 
ten  pile  of  professional  rubbish,  and  sit  down  quietly  and  listen  ■•' 
to  reason."  ^^ 

I  felt  annoyed,  and  would  not  resume  my  place  beside  him, 
but,  assuming  a  very  stately  air,  seated  myself  opposite  to  my 
tormentor  on  a  huge  iron  chest,  which  was  the  only  seat,  save 
the  bed,  in  the  room  ;  and  then,  fixing  my  eyes  reproachfully 
upon  him,  I  sat  as  stiff  as  a  poker,  without  relaxing  a  muscle  of 
my  face. 

He  laughed  outright.   ' '  "' '  '      ■---'?       -  -  -t  ■  ---,,,,. 

"  You  are  displeased  with  my  bluntness,  Geoffrey,  and  I  am 
amused  with  your  dignity.  That  solemn,  proud  face  would 
become  the  Lord  Chancellor  of  England." 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  you  tormenting  wretch  ;    I  won't  be  ■ 
laughed  at  in  this  absurd  manner.    Wliat  have  I  done  to  deserve 
such  a  sermon  ?"  •" 


\ 


\ 


flv 


»<"• 


--.•.."?x.«.ifc^,jji;.'.i»^;3_fr._itj7«a.i^ 


^ 


'4i 


THE     MOtrOTONS 


« 


*  Vanity,  vanity,  all  is  vanity,  saith  the  preacher,*  and  surely, 

/  Geoffrey,  your  vanity  exceeds  all  other  vanity.    I  hint  at  a 

/'      fault,  and  point  it  out  for  correction.    You  imagine  yourself 

j/         perfection,  and  are  up  in  arms  in  a  moment.     Answer  me, 

seriously  :  do  you  ever  expect  to  settle  in  life  ?" 

"  I  have  dared  to  cherish  the  forlorn  hope."  '  *^ 

"  Forlorn  as  it  is,  you  are  taking  the  best  method  to  destroy 

it." 

n  "  What  would  you  have  me  do  ?"        '     '     '    '^  ^       -    «-  ' - 
j  ^*  Yield  to  circumstances."      i^'-fi    -^  >;     .ju  :      •.     U -..^ 

*  *'  Become  a  villain  ?"    This  was  said  with  a  very  tragic  air. '  •'' 
""  May  heaven  forbid  I    I  would  be  sorry  to  see  you  so 

nearly  resemble  your  uncle.  But  I  would  have  you  avoid  use- 
lessly offending  him  ;  for,  by  constantly  inflaming  his  mind  to 
anger,  you  may  ruin  your  own  prospects,  and  be  driven,  in  des- 
peration, to  adopt  measures  for  obtaining  a  living,  scarcely  less 
dishonorable  than  his  own."     » ^^ ' '''   ^^'^'  ^-  ^'"^  '-   ^  *^^^^  ^'^' 

*  •*  Go  on,"  I  cried  ;  "  it  is  all  very  well  for  you  to  talk  in  this 
philosophical  strain  ;  you  have  not  been  educated  in  the  same 
bitter  school  with  me  ;  you  have  not  known  what  it  is  to 
writhe  beneath  the  oppressive  authority  of  this  cold,  unfeeling 
man  ;  you  cannot  understand  the  nature  of  my  spjScerings,  or  the 
painful  humiliation  I  must  daily  endure."     -  ^'  •  ..^..^i-.i^^^-^-^ 

-  He  took  my  hand  affectionately.  ''i'^^nH  t^^^  '^''' 

*'  Geoffrey,  how  do  you  know  all  this  ?  Yours  is  not  a  pro- 
fession which  allows  men  to  jump  at  conclusions.  What  can 
you  tell  of  my  past  or  present  trials.  What  if  I  should  say, 
they  had  been  far  greater  and  worse  to  bear  than  your  own  ?" 

."  Impossible  I"  .  ;>*».i^v.-^ 

^*"  All  things  that  ha^e  reference  to  sorrow  and  trouble,  in 
this  world,  are  only  too  possible.  But  I  will  have  patience  with 
you,  my  poor  friend  ;  your  heart  is  very  sore.  The  deadly 
wounds  in  mine  are  partially  healed  ;  yet,  my  experience  of  life 
has  been  bought  with  bitter  tears.    The  loss  of  hope,  health 


THE     MONOTONS 


46 


in 


ife 
th 


and  self-respect.  I  am  williDg  that  yoa  shoald  profit  by  this  ; 
and,  haviDg  made  this  confession,  will  you  condescend  to  hear 
my  lecture  to  an  end  ?" 

"  Oh,  tell  me  somethiDg  more  about  yonrself.    I  woald  rather 
listen  to  your  sorrows,  than  have  my  faults  paraded  before 


» 


me. 

A  melancholy  smile  passed  over  his  face.  .— - 

"  Geoffrey,  what  a  child  you  are  !  Listen  to  me.  Yon  have 
suffered  this  personal  dislike  to  your  uncle  and  his  son,,  to  over- 
top— like  some  rank  weed — every  better  growth  of  your  mind  ; 
to  destroy  your  moral  integrity  and  mental  advantages ;  to 
interfere  with  your  studies,  and  prevent  any  beneficial  rcstrit 
which  might  arise  from  your  situation  as  elerk  in  this  office. 
Is  this  wise?" 
I  remained  obstinately  silent.  r 

"  You  are  lengthening  the  term  of  your  bondage,  and  riveting 
the  fetters  you  are  so  anxious  to  break.  Does  not  your  ancle 
know  this?  Does  he  not  laugh  at  your  impotent  efforts  to 
break  his  yoke  from  off  your  neck  ?  In  one  short  year  your 
articles  will  expire,  and  you  will  become  a  iree  agent.  Bat^ 
with  the  little  knowledge  you  have  gained  of  your  profession, 
what  would  liberty  do  for  you  ?  Would  it  procure  for  you  a 
better  situation  ;  establish  your  claims  as  a  gentleman|,or  fill 
an  empty  purse  ?"  '  ■    -^  ■  .^  --^f " 

"Let  the  worst  come  to  the  worst^I  could  work  for  my 
bread."     -         -    ^      .'  -.         -  '-   *,        4fiM^  ^4*H4m-:.imi^it^ 
"  Not' such  an  easy  thing  as  you  imagine."         ^^    "-     ♦*--  ^  - 
"  With  health,  strength  and  youth  on  my  side,  what  shoald 
hinder  me  ?"    "'  «*  ^«-.i .,  ..  ..i^t**.- 

"  Your  uncle's  influence,  which  is  very  great.  The  world 
does  not  know  him,  as  we  know  him.  He'  is  considered  an 
upright,  honolable  man.  One  word  from  him  would  blast  your 
character,  and  keep  you  out  of  every  office  in  London."  ^^  *L^.^-^ 

I  felt  my  cheeks  grow  pale.    I  had  never  seen  matters  in  this 


^ 


I 


m 


45 


THB     MONGTONg 


X 


';tw 


1,4 


re- 


light before.  Still,  I  would  not  yield  to  the  argaments  of  my 
frieud.  The  obstinate  spiril  of  the  Monctons  was  in  active  ope- 
ration just  then,  and  would  not  submit  to  reason.  ;r.j  ^ 

"  There  are  more  ways  of  earning  a  livlDg  than  by  following 
the  profession  of  the  law,"  said  I,  doggedly. 

"  To  all  of  which  you  have  an  apprenticeship  to  serve.  Think, 
Geoffrey,  of  the  thousands  of  respectable  young  men  who  are 
looking  for  employment  in  this  vast  metropolis,  and  how  few  are 
successful ;  and  then  ask  yourself,  how  you,  without  money, 
without  friends,  and  with  a  powerful  enemy  to  crush  all  your 
honest  endeavors,  and  render  them  abortive,  are  likely  to  earn 
your  own  living." 

I  was  struck  speechless,  and,  for  the  first  time  in  my  life, 
became  aware  of  my  utter  inability  to  extricate  myself  out  of 
the  net  of  difficulties  that  surrounded  me. 

"  You  are  convinced  at  last.  Look  me  steadily  in  the  face, 
Geoffrey,  and  own  that  you  are  beaten.  Nay,  smooth  that 
frowning  brow  ;  it  makes  you  look  like  Robert  Moncton. 

"  Your  profession  is  a  fortune  in  itself,  if  you  persevere  in 
acquiring  it.  Be  not  discouraged  by  difficulties  that  beset  the 
path.  A  poor  man's  road  to  independence  is  always  np-hill 
work  Duty  fences  the  path  on  either  side,  and  success  waves 
her  flag  from  the  summit ;  but  every  step  must  be  trod,  often  in 
ragged  garments  and  with  bare  feet,  if  we  would  reach  the 
top." 

I  pressed  George  Harrison's  hand,  silently  within  my  own. 
He  had  won  a  great  victory  over  obstinacy  and  self-conceit. 

From  that  hour  my  prospects  brightened.  I  became  a  new 
creature,  full  of  hope,  activity  and  trust.  My  legal  studies 
engaged  all  my  leisure  moments.  I  had  no  time  left  to  brood 
over  my  wrongs.  My  mind  had  formed  an  estimate  of  its  own 
powers  ;  the  energetic  spirit  which  had  been  wasted  in  endless 
Cbvils  and  contradictions — for  my  temper  \vas  faulty  and  head- 
strong, and  my  uncle  not  always  the  aggressor — now  asserted 


1, 


Jkh^>.'^    I:i..,   .'    .;k^ 


THK     MONCTONS. 


n%1*^ 


I 


own. 


2i 


its  own  dignity,  and  furnished  me  with  tlie  weapon  most  needed 
in  such  petty  warfare — self-respect.  Harrison  had  given  me  a 
motive  for  exertion,  and  I  was  ashamed  of  having  suffered  my 
mental  powers  to  remain  so  long  inactive.  As  my  mind 
recovered  a  healthy  tone,  my  spirits  rose  in  proportion.  The 
thirst  for  improvement  daily  acquired  new  strength,  while  my 
industry  not  only  surprised,  but  drew  forth  the  commendations 
of  my  uncle. 

"  What  has  become  of  youf  churlish,  moroi^e  temper,  Geof- 
frey ?"  he  said  to  me  one  day,  at  dinner ;  "  why,  boy,  you  are 
greatly  changed  of  late.  From  a  sulky,  impertinent,  vindictive 
lad,  you  have  became  an  industrious,  agreeable,  pleasant 
fellow." 

"It  is  never  too  late  to  mend,  uncle,"  said  I,  laughing, 
though  I  did  not  much  relish  his  portrait  of  what  I  had  been. 
"  My  temper  I  found  a  greater  punishment  to  myself  than  to 
others,  so  I  thought  it  high  time  to  change  it  for  a  better." 

"  You  were  perfectly  right.  I  have  a  better  hope  for  your 
future  than  I  once  had.  I  shall  be  able  to  make  something  out 
of  you  yet." 

This  unlooked-for  condescension  on  the  part  of  Mr.  Moncton, 
softened  the  hard  feelings  I  had  long  cherished  against  him 
into  a  more  Christian-like  endurance  of  his  peculiarities  ;  and 
the  conscientious  discharge  of  my  own  duty  taught  me  to 
consider  his  interests  as  my  own. 

.lAhiii    iy^.';V^M.'  'i^'m¥^%i  k--.S 


i-.-i.  .^iv«  ;• 


•:■■■. i.  ia^-isii'*^   <r-r,  i  «  a-^h    il^.i^  ff   i  ..'.'■ii  ;.:.J;J'is7^t?*?    y!.''f  :"Mf^ 


\ 


^^mtwemm"!''! 


\: 


^■■" 


15^ 


m 


t\ 


TBR     M0N0TON8. 


•'i:> 


l>     'TJ*.?.fH'v?t 


CHAPTER    VIII 


UNGRATIFIED   CURIOSITY. 


There  is  a  period  in  every  young  man's  first  oatset  in  life, 
that  gives  a  coloring  to  his  future  destiny.  It  is  the  time  for 
action,  for  mental  and  moral  improvement,  and  the  manner  in 
which  it  is  applied  or  neglected,  will  decide  his  character,  or 
•  leave  him  weak  and  vacillating  all  the  days  of  his  life.  -  '  "'^m* 
'  If  this  precious  portion  of  existence  is  wasted  in  frivolous 
amusements,  time  gets  the  start  of  us,  and  no  after-exertioii 
enables  us  to  overtake  him  in  his  flight.  This  important  era 
was  mine — and  I  lost  no  opportunity  of  turning  it  to  the  best 
advantage.  I  worked  early  and  late  in  the  office,  and  made 
myself  master  of  the  nature  of  the  work  that  employed  my 
hands.  I  learned  the  philosophy  of  those  law  forms,  which 
hitherto  I  had  only  copied  mechanically,  and  looked  upon  as  a 
weary  task,  and  I  soon  reaped  the  benefit  of  my  increased  stock 
of  knowledge.  Grave  men,  in  the  absence  of  my  uncle,  often 
applied  to  me  for  information  and  advice,  which  I  felt  proud  and 
happy  in  being  able  to  supply.       ^      ^.   K^^r-- -''.^^'-^^  ^'^''■''^'^■^■^r^^^'^v-ii 

Thus,  I  found  that  in  serving  my  employer  faithfully,  I  con- 
ferred the  greatest  benefit  on  myself ;  and  the  hours  devoted  to 
study,  while  they  formed  a  pleasant  recreation  from  the  day 
labors  of  the  office,  were  among  the  happiest  and  most  sinless  of 
my  life.  V       '  •  "  —- 

I  was  seldom  admitted  into  my  uncle's  drawing-room,  and 
never  allowed  to  mingle  with  evening  parties,  which,  during  the 
brief  visits  of  Theophilus  to  his  home,  were  not  only  frequent, 
but  very  brilliant.    This  I  felt  as  a  great  hardship.    My  soli- 


# 


k 


1 


THE    MONCTONS, 


49 


li 

:^ 
«^ 

i;J 

ife, 

iot 

ir  itt 

,  or 

>l0U9  , 

rtion       ' 
b  era 
best 
made 

d  my 
wbicli 
n  as  a 

stock 

often 
ad  and 

X  coa- 
sted to 
he  day 
nless  of 

■)m,  and 
ring  the 
requent, 
My  soli- 


tary and  companionless  youth  had  deeply  imbued  my  mind  with 
romance.  I  was  fond  of  castle-building  ;  I  pictured  to  myself 
the  world  as  a  paradise,  and  fancied  that  I  was  an  illustrious 
actor  in  scenes  of  imaginary  splendor,  which  bore  no  analogy  to 
the  dull  realities  ot  my  present  life. 

I  was  a  dreamer  of  wild  dreams,  and  suflfered  my  enthusiasm 
to  get  the  master  of  reason,  and  betray  me  into  a  thousand 
absurdities.  My  love  for  poetry  and  music  was  excessive.  I 
played  upon  the  flute  by  ear,  and  often  when  alone,  dissipated 
my  melancholy  thoughts  by  breathing  them  into  the  instru- 
ment. 

Through  this  medium,  Harrison  became  an  adept  at  discover- 
ing the  state  of  my  feelings.  "  My  flute  told  tales,"  he  said. 
"It  always  spoke  the  language  of  my  heart."  Yet  from  him  I. 
had  few  concealments.  He  was  my  friend  and  bosom  counsellor, 
in  whom  I  reposed  the  most  unreserved  confidence.  But  strange 
to. say,  this  confidence  was  not  mutual.  There  was  a  mystery 
about  George  that  I  could  not  fathom  ;  a  mental  reservation 
that  was  tantalizing  and  inexplicable.  •   '     ■  -.  -   ^^      — 

He  was  a  gentleman  in  education,  appearance  and  manners, 
and  possessed  those  high  and  honorable  feelings,  which  if  dis- 
played in  a  peasant,  would  rank  him  as  one,  and  which  are 
inseparable  from  all  who  really  deserve  the  title.  He  never 
spoke  to  me  of  his  family — never  alluded  to  the  events  of  his 
past  life,  or  the  scenes  in  which  his  childhood  had  been  spent. 
He  talked  of  sorrow  and  sickness — of  chastisements  in  the 
school  of  adversity,  in  general  terms ;  but  he  never  revealed  the 
cause  of  these  trials,  or  why  a  young  man  of  his  attainments  was 
reduced  to  a  situation  so  far  below  the  station  he  ought  to  have 
held  in  society.  '.-«'  •■ 

.  I  was  half  inclined  to  quarrel  with  him  for  so  pertinaciously 
concealing  from  me  circumstances  which  I  thought  I  had  a  right 
to  know  ;  and  in  which,  when  known,  I  was  fully  prepared  to 
sympathize.    A  thousand  times  I  was  on  the  point  of  remon- 

3 


50 


THE     HONOTONS. 


f 


strating  with  him  on  this  undue  reserve,  wliicli  appeared  so 
foreign  to  his  frank,  open  nature,  but  feelings  of  delicacy 
restrained  me.- 

What  right  had  /  to  pry  into  his  secrets  ?  My  impertinent 
curiosity  might  reopen  wounds  that  time  had  closed.  There 
were,  doubtless,  good  reasons  for  his  withholding  the  information 
I  coveted.     .     >    m 

Yet,  I  must  confess  that  I  had  an  intense  curiosity — a  burn- 
ing desire  to  knov  the  history  of  his  past  life.  For  many  long 
months  my  wishes  remained  ungratified. 

At  this  time  I  felt  an  ardent  desire  to  see  something  more  of 
life,  to  mingle  in  the  gay  scenes  of  the  great  world  around  mo. 
Pride,  however,  withheld  me  from  accepting  the  many  pressing 
invitations  I  daily  received  from  the  clerks  in  the  office,  to  join  thera 
in  parties  of  pleasure,  to  the  theatres  and  other  places  of  public 
amusement.  Mr.  Moncton  had  strictly  forbidden  me  to  leave 
the  house  of  an  evening  ;  but  as  he  was  often  absent  of  a  night, 
I  could  easily  have  evaded  his  commands  ;  but  I  scorned  to 
expose  to  strangers  the  meanness  of  my  wealthy  relative,  by 
confessing  that  mine  was  an  empty  purse;  while  the  thought  of 
enjoying  myself  at  the  expense  of  my  generous  companions,  was 
not  to  be  tolerated  for  an  instant.  Jf  I  could  not  go  as  a  gen- 
tleman, and  pay  my  own  share  of  the  entertainment,  I  deter- 
mined not  to  go  at  all  ;  and  these  resolutions  met  with  the 
entire  approbation  of  my  friend  Harrison. 

"  Wait  patiently,  Geoffrey,  and  fortune  will  pay  up  the  arrears 
of  the  long  debt  she  «^ves  you.  It  is  an  old  and  hackneyed 
saying,  '  That  riches  alone,  cannot  confer  happiness  upon  the 
possessor.' " 

"My  uncle  and  cousin  are  living  demonstrations  of  the  truth 
of  the  proverb.  Mr.  Moncton  is  affluent,  and  might  enjoy  all 
the  luxuries  that  wealth  can  procure  ;  yet  he  toils  with  as  much 
assiduity  to  increase  his  riches,  as  the  poorest  laborer  does  to 
earn  bread  for  his  family.    He  can  acquire,  but  has  not  the 


t 


's-iSi-s 


THE     M0N0T0N8, 


«l 


jars 
^yed 
the 

ruth 
all 
luch 
Is  to 
the 


t 


heart  to  enjoy— while  the  bad  disposition  of  Tlieophilfls  would 
render  him,  under  any  circumstances,  a  miserable  man.  Yet, 
after  all,  George,  in  this  bad  world,  money  is  power." 

"  Only,  to  a  certain  extent— to  bo  happy,  a  man  must  bo  good. 
Religiously — morally — physically.  lie  must  bear  upon  his  heart 
the  image  of  the  Prince  of  Peace,  before  ho  can  truly  value  the 
glorious  boon  of  life." 

"  I  wish  I  could  see  these  things  in  the  same  calm  unpre- 
judiced light,"  said  I ;  "  but  I  find  it  a  bitter  mortification,  after 
so  many  years  of  hard  labor,  to  be  without  a  penny  to  pay  for 
seeing  a  raree-show." 

Harrison  laughed  heartily.  "  You  will  perhaps  say,  that  it  is 
easy  for  me  to  preach  against  riches  ;  but  like  the  Fox  in  the 
fable,  the  grapes  are  sour.  But  I  speak  with  indifference  of  the 
good  that  Providence  has  placed  beyond  my  reach.  Geoffrey, 
I  was  once  the  envied  possessor  of  wealth,  which  in  my  case 
was  productive  of  much  evil." 

"  How  did  you  lose  such  an  advantage  ?"  I  eagerly  cried. 
"  00  tell  me  something  of  your  past  life  ?" 

This  was  the  first  allusion  he  had  made  to  his  former  circum- 
stances ;  and  I  was  determined  not  to  let  the  opportunity  pass 
unnoticed. 

He  seemed  to  guess  my  thoughts.  "  Are  you  anxious  for  a 
humiliating  confession,  of  vanity,  folly  and  prodigality  ;  well 
Geoffrey,  you  shall  have  it — but  mark  me — it  will  only  be  in  gen- 
eral terms — I  cannot  enter  into  particulars.  I  was  bom  poor, 
and  unexpectedly  became  rich,  and  like  many  persons  in  like  cir- 
cumstances, I  was  ashamed  of  my  mean  origin  ;  and  thought, 
by  making  a  dashing  appearance  and  squandering  lavishly  my 
wealth,  to  induce  men  to  forget  my  humble  birth.  The  world 
applauds  such  madness  as  long  as  the  money  lasts,  and  for  a 
short  period,  I  had  friends  and  flatterers  at  will. 

"My  brief  career  terminated  in  ruin  and  disgrace — wealth 
that  is  not  acquired  by  industry,  is  seldom  retained  by  prudence  ; 


I 

4k 


6$^ 


THE     MON0TON8. 


and  to  those  unacquainted  with  the  real  value  of  money,  a  largo 
sum  always  appears  inexhaustible.  So  it  was  with  me.  I  spent, 
without  calculating  the  cost,  and  soon  lost  all.  The  worhl  now 
wore  a  very  ditl'erent  aspect.  I  was  deserted  by  all  my  gay 
associates,  my  most  intimate  companions  i)as8ed  me  in  the  streets 
without  recognition.  I  knew  that  this  would  be  the  result  of 
my  altered  fortunes,  yet  the  reality  cut  me  to  the  heart. 

"  These  are  mortifying  lessons,  which  experience — wisdom's 
best  counsellor — daily  teaches  us  ;  and  a  man  must  either  be  very 
self-conceited,  or  very  insensible,  who  cannot  profit  by  her  valu- 
able instructions.  The  hour  that  brought  to  me  the  humiliating 
conviction,  that  I  was  a  person  of  no  consequence  ;  that  the 
world  could  go  on  very  well  without  me  ;  that  my  merry  com- 
panions would  not  be  one  jot  less  facetious,  though  I  was  absent 
from  their  jovial  parties,  was,  after  all,  not  the  most  miserable 
of  my  life. 

"  I  woke  as  from  a  dream.  The  scales  had  fallen  from  my 
eyes,  I  knew  myself — and  became  a  wiser  and  better  man — I 
called  all  my  creditors  together,  discharged  my  debts,  and  found 
myself  free  of  the  world  in  the  most  literal  sense. 

"  Good  Heavens  1"  I  exclaimed.  "  How  could  you  bear  such 
a  dreadful  reverse  with  such  fortitude — such  magnanimity  ?" 

"  You  give  me  greater  credit  than  I  deserve,  Geoffrey — my 
imprudent  conduct  merited  a  severe  punishineut,  and  I  had  sense 
enough  to  discern  that  it  was  just.  After  the  first  shock  was 
over,  I  felt  happier  in  my  poverty  than  I  had  ever  done  during 
my  unmerited  prosperity — I  had  abused  the  gifts  of  fortune 
while  they  were  mine,  and  I  determined  to  acquire  an  independ- 
ence by  my  own  exertions.  A  friend,  whom  1  had  scarcely 
regarded  as  such,  during  my  reckless  career  of  folly,  came  unex- 
pectedly to  my  assistance,  and  offered  to  purchase  for  me  a  com- 
mission in  the  army,  but  I  had  private  reasons  for  wishing  to 
obtain  a  situation  in  this  office  ;  writing  a  good  band,  and  hav- 
ing been  originally  educated  for  the  profession,  together  with 


# 


TUB     MONOTONS. 


63 


tho  recommendation  of  Mr.  IJaasett  who  was  related  to  my 
friend,  procured  nie  tho  place  I  now  hold." 

"  And  your  reoHona  lor  coming  hero  ?"  I  cried,  burning  with 
curiosity. 

"  Pardon  me,  Geoffrey.    That  is  my  secret." 

lie  Hpoko  with  the  calmness  of  a  i)hilosopher,  but  I  saw  tho 
tears  in  his  eyes  as  ho  turned  mechanically  to  tho  parchment  ho 
was  copying,  and  affected  an  air  of  cheerful  resignation. 

Tho  candid  exposure  of  his  past  faults  and  follies  raised,  ratlier* 
than  sunk  him  in  my  estimation  ;  but  I  was  sadly  disappointed 
at  tho  general  terms  in  which  they  were  revealed.     I  wanted  to 
know  every  event  of  his  private  life,  and  this  abridgment  was  very 
tantalizing.  .    > 

While  1  was  pondering  these  things  in  my  heart,  the  pen  ho 
had  grasped  bo  tightly  was  flung  to  some  distance,  and  ho  raised 
his  fine  eyes  to  my  face.  ••        '* 

"Thank  God,  Geoffrey  1 — I  have  not,  as  yet,  lost  the  faculty 
of  feeling — that  I  can  see  and  deplore  tho  errors  of  tho  past. 
When  I  think  of  what  I  was — what  I  am  —and  what  1  might 
have  been,  it  brings  a  cloud  over  my  mind  which  often  dissolves 
in  tears.  This  is  the  weakness  of  human  nature  But  the  years 
so  uselessly  ^"  ^  i,  1  rise  up  in  dread  array  against  mo,  and  tho 
flood-gatt\-  of  the  soul  are  broken  up  by  bitter  and  remorseful 
regrets,  hut  see,"  he  cried,  dashing  the  thickening  mist  from 
his  (yes,  and  resuming  his  peculiarly  benevolent  smile.  "The 
dark  cloud  has  passed,  and  George  is  himself  again." 
•  "  You  are  happier  than  I.  You  can  smile  through  your 
tears,"  I  cried,  regarding  his  April  face  with  surprise. 

"And  so  would  you,  Geoffrey,  '  ,  like  me,  you  had  brought 
your  passions  under  the  subjection  of  reason." 

" It  is  no  easy  task,  George,  to  storm  a  city,  when  your  own 
subjects'  defend  the  walls,  and  at  every  attack  drive  you  back 
with  your  own  weapons,  into  the  trenches.  I  will,  however, 
commence  the  attack,  by  striving  to  forget  that  there  is  a  world 


X 


64 


THE     MONCTONS. 


beyond  these  gloomy  walls,  in  whose  busy  scenes  I  am  forbidden 
to  mingle."  » 

**  Valliantly  resolved,  GeoflFrey.  But  how  comes  it,  that  you 
did  not  tell  me  the  news  this  morning  ?" 

"  News — what  news  V 

"  Your  cousin  Theophilus  returned  last  night." 

*'  The  devil  he  did.  That's  everything  but  good  news  to  me. 
But  are  you  sure  the  news  is  true  ?" 

'  "  My  landlady  is  sister  to  Mr.  Moncton's  housekeeper.  I  had 
my  information  from  her.  She  tells  me  that  the  father  and  son 
are  on  very  bad  terms." 

"  I  have  seldom  heard  Mr.  Moncton  mention  him  of  late.  I 
wonder  we  have  not  seen  him  in  the  office.  He  generally  pays 
ns  an  early  visit  to  show  off  his  fine  clothes,  and  to  insult  me." 

"  Talk  of  his  satanic  majesty,  Geoff.  You  know  the  rest. 
Here  comes  the  heir  of  the  house  of  Moncton." 

"  He  does  not  belong  to  the  elder  branch,"  I  cried,  fiercely. 
"  Poor  as  I  am,  I  consider  myself  the  head  of  the  house,  and 
one  of  these  days  will  dispute  his  right  to  that  title." 

"Tushl"  said  George,  resuming  his  pen,  "you  are  talking 
sad  nonsense     But  thereby  hangs  a  tale." 

I  looked  up  inquiringly.  Harrison  was  hard  at  work.  I  saw 
a  mischievous  smile  hovering  about  his  lips.  Ho  turned  his 
back  abruptly  to  the  door,  and  bent  more  closely  over  his  parch- 
ment, as  Theophilus  Moncton  entered  the  office  equipped  for 
a  journey. 


TH  E     M  ONCTONS. 


55 


CHAPTER   IX. 


A  PORTRAIT. 


Two  years  had  passed  away  since  I  last  beheld  my  cousin, 
and  during  his  absence,  there  had  been  peace  between  his  father 
and  me.  He  appeared  before  me  like  the  evil  genius  of  the 
house,  prepared  to  renew  the  old  hostility,  and  I  could  not  meet 
him  with  the  least  show  of  cordiality  and  affection. 

I  am  not  a  good  hand  at  sketching  portraits,  but  the  person 
of  my  cousin  is  so  fresh  in  my  memory,  his  i#age  so  closely 
interwoven  with  all  the  leading  events  of  my  life,  that  I  can 
scarcely  fail  in  giving  a  tolerably  correct  likeness  of  the  original. 

He  was  just  about  the  middle  stature,  his  figure  slender  and 
exceedingly  well  made  ;  and  but  for  a  strong  dash  of  affectation, 
which  marred  all  that  he  did  and  said,  his  carriage  would  have 
been  easy  and  graceful.  His  head  was  small  and  handsomely 
placed  upon  his  shoulders,  his  features  sharply  defined  and  very 
prominent.  His  teeth'  were  dazzlingly  white,  but  so  long  and  nar- 
row that  they  looked  as  if  they  could  bite  you  under  the  least  pro- 
vocation, which  gave  a  peculiarly  sinister  and  malicious  expres- 
sion to  his  face — which  expression  was  greatly  heightened  by  the 
ghastly  contortion  that  was  meant  for  a  smile,  and  which  was 
in  constant  requisition,  in  order  to  show  off  the  said  teeth, 
which  Theophilus  considered  one  of  his  greatest  atirsotions. 
But  my  cousin  had  no  personal  attractions.  There  was  no^yhing 
manly  or  decided  about  him.  Smooth  and  insidious  where  he 
wished  to  please,  his  first  appearance  to  strangers  was  always 


"tmmmim^ 


56 


THE     MONCTONS 


unprepossessing ;  and  few  persons  on  their  first  introduction, 
had  any  great  desire  to  extend  their  acquaintance. 

He  ought  to  have  been  fair,  for  his  hair  and  whisliers  were  of 
the  palest  tint  of  brown;  but  his  complexion  was  grey  and 
muddy,  and  his  large  sea-green  eyes  afforded  not  the  least  con- 
trast to  the  uniform  smokiness  of  his  skin.  Those  cold,  selfish, 
deceitful  eyes.  His  father's  in  shape  and  expression,  but  lacking 
the  dark  strength — the  stern  determined  look  that  at  times 
lighted  up  Robert  Moncton's  proud,  cruel  face. 

Much  as  I  disliked  the  father,  he  was,  in  his  worst  moods, 
more  tolerable  to  me  than  his  son.  Glimpses  of  his  mind  would 
at  times  flash  out  through  those  unnaturally  bright  eyes  ;  and 
betray  somewhat  of  the  hell  within.  But  Theophilus  was  close 
and  dark — a  sealed  book  which  no  man  could  open  and  read. 
An  overweening  sense  of  his  own  importance  was  the  only  trait 
of  his  character  which  lay  upon  the  surface ;  and  this,  his 
master  failing,  was  revealed  by  every  look  and  gesture. 

A  servile  flatterer  to  persons  of  rank,  and  insolent  and 
tyrannical  to  those  whom  he  considered  beneath  him,  he  united  in 
his  character,  the  qualifications  of  both  tyrant  and  slave. 

The  most  brilliant  sallies  of  wit  could  not  produce  the  least 
brightening  effect  upon  his  saturnine  countenance,  or  the  most 
pathetic  burst  of  eloquence  draw  the  least  moisture  to  his  eye, 
which  only  became  animated  when  contradicting  some  well- 
received  opinion,  or  discussing  the  merits  of  an  acquaintance, 
and  placing  his  faults  and  follies  in  the  most  conspicuous  light. 

He  was  endowed  with  excellent  practical  abilities,  possessed 
a  most  retentive  memory,  and  a  thorough  knowledge  of  the 
most  intricate  windings  of  the  human  heart.  Nothing  escaped 
his  observation.  It  would  have  been  a  difficult  matter  to  have 
made  a  tool  of  one,  whose  suspicions  were  always  wide  awake  ; 
who  never  acted  from  impulse,  or  without  a  motive,  and  who 
had  a  shrewd  knack  of  rendering  the  passions  of  others  subser- 
vient to  his  own.         '  ,  . 


THE     MONCTONS. 


51 


ice, 
It. 
3sed 
the 
[ped 
lave 
Ike ; 
Iwho 
)ser- 


He  was  devoted  to  sensual  pleasures,  but  the  mask  he  wore 
so  effectually  concealed  his  vicious  propensities,  that  the  most 
cautious  parents  would  have  admitted  him,  without  hesitation, 
into  their  family  circle. 

Robert  Moncton  thought  himself  master  of  the  mind  of  his 
son,  and  fancied  him  a  mere  puppet  in  his  hands ;  but  his 
cunning  was  foiled  by  the  superior  cunning  of  Theophilus,  and 
he  ultimately  became  the  dupe  and  victim  of  the  being  for 
whose  aggrandizement  he  did  not  scruple  to  commit  the  worst 
crimes. 

Theophilus  was  extremely  neat  in  his  dress,  and  from  the 
cravat  to  the  well-polished  boot  his  costume  was  perfect.  An 
effeminate,  solemn-looking  dandy  outwardly — within,  as  fero- 
cious and  hard  a  human  biped  as  ever  disgraced  the  name  of 
man. 

"  Well,  Geoff  1"  he  said,  condescendingly  presenting  his  hand, 
"  what  have  you  been  doing  for  the  last  two  years  ?"         '  *  ''■ 

"  Writing,  in  the  old  place,"  said  I,  carelessly. 

"  A  fixture  ! — ha,  ha  1  'A  rolling  stone,'  they  say,  *  gathers 
no  moss.'    How  does  that  agree  with  your  stationary  position  ?" 

"  It  only  proves,  that  all  proverbs  have  two  sides  to  them," 
said  I.  "  You  roll  about  the  world  and  scatter  the  moss  that 
I  sit  here  to  help  accumulate."  "   * 

**  What  a  lucky  dog  you  are,"  he  said,  "  to  escape  so  easily 
from  the  snares  and  temptations  of  this  wicked  world.  While  I 
am  tormented  with  ennui,  blue-devils  and  dyspepsia,  you  sit  still 
and  grow  in  stature  and  knowledge.  By  Jove  1  you  are  too 
big  to  wear  my  cast-off  suits  now.  My  valet  will  bless  the 
increase  of  your  outward  man,  and  I  don't  think  you  have  at  all 
profited  by  the  circumstance.  Where  the  deuce  did  you  get 
that  eccentric  turn-out  ?  It  certainly  does  not  remind  one  of 
Bond  street." 

"  Mi'.  Theophilus  I"  I  cried,  reddening  with  indignation. 
"  Did  you  come  here  on  purpose  to  insult  me  ?" 

8* 


.'"  ,1     mm 


»mm 


♦ 


58 


THE     MONOTONS. 


!     -4 


"*-.■ 


[ 


"  Sit  still,  now,  like  a  good  lad,  and  don't  fly  into  heroics  and 
give  us  a  scene.  I  am  too  lazy  to  pick  a  quarrel  with  you. 
What  a  confounded  wet  morning.  It  has  disarranged  all  my 
plans.  I  ordered  the  groom  to  bring  up  my  mare  at  eleven. 
The  rain  commenced  at  ten.  I  think  it  l  ^ans  to  keep  on  at 
this  rate,  all  d'    ." 

He  cast  a  peevish  glance  at  the  dusty  ground-glass  windows. 

"  There's  no  catching  a  glimpse  of  heav on  through  these  dim 
panes.  My  father's  clerks  are  not  called  upon  to  resist  the 
temptation  of  looking  into  the  streets." 

"  They  might  not  inappropriately  be  called  the  pains  and 
penalties  of  lawyer's  clerks,"  said  I,  smothering  my  anger,  as  I 
saw  by  the  motion  of  Harrison's  head,  that  he  was  suffering 
from  an  agony  of  suppressed  laughter. 

"  Not  a  bad  idea  that.  The  plan  of  grinding  the  glass  was 
suggested  by  me.  An  ingenious  one,  is  it  not?  My  father 
had  the  good  sense  to  adopt  it.  It's  a  pity  that  his  example 
is  not  followed  by  all  the  lawyers  and  merchants  in  London." 

In  spite  of  the  spattering  of  Harrison's  pen,  that  told  me 
as  plainly  as  words  could  have  done,  that  he  was  highly  amused 
at  the  seer 9,  I  felt  irri-  ated  at  Theophilus  joking  about  a  cir- 
cumstance which,  to  me,  was  a  great  privation  and  annoyance. 

"  If  you  had  a  scat  in  this  office,  Mr.  Theophilus,"  said  I, 
laying  a  strong  stress  upon  the  personal  pronoun,  "  you  would, 
I  am  certain,  take  good  care  to  keep  a  peep-hole,  well-glazed, 
for  your  own  convenience." 

"  If  I  were  in  the  office,"  he  replied,  with  one  of  his  tiJelong, 
satirical  glances,  "  I  should  have  too  much  to  do  in  keeping  the 
clerks  at  work  and  in  their  places,  to  havt  luch  time  for  look- 
ing out  of  the  window.  My  fathtir  would  do  well  to  hire  an 
overseer  for  idle  hands." 

Harrison's  tremulous  fit  incr3ased,  while  I  was  burning  with 
indignation,  and  rose  passionately  from  my  seat. 

"Geoffrey"  —  pronounced  in  au  undertone,  restrained  mc 


THE     liONCTONS 


ij» 


r\< 


;•■// 


l\Q 


m 


Ith 


from  committing  an  act  of  violence.    I  resomed  my  stool,  mat- 
tering audibly  between  my  teeth — 

"  Contemptible  puppy  1"        ' 

I  was  quite,  ready  for  a  quarrel,  but  Theophilus,  contrary  to 
my  expectations,  did  not  choose  to  take  any  notice  of  my  imprn- 
dent  speech.  Not  that  he  wanted  personal  courage.  Like  the 
wasp  he  could,  when  unprovoked,  attack  others,  and  sting  with 
tenfold  malice  when  he  felt  or  fancied  an  aflFront.  His  forbear- 
ance on  the  present  occasion,  I  attributed  to  the  very  handsome 
riding-dress  in  which  he  had  encased  his  slight  and  elegant  form. 
A  contest  with  a  strong,  powerful  young  fellow  like  me,  might 
have  ended  in  its  demolition. 

Slashing  his  boot  with  his  riding-whip,  and  glancing  carelessly 
towards  the  window,  he  said,  with  an  air  of  perfect  indifference  : 

"  Well,  if  the  rain  means  to  pour  in  this  way  all  day,  it  is 
certain  that  I  cannot  prosecute  my  journey  to  Dover  on  horse- 
back. I  must  take  the  coach,  and  leave  the  groom  to  foUow 
with  the  horses.'' 

"  Dover  I"  I  repeated,  with  an  involuntary  start,  "  are  yon 
off  for  France  ?" 

"  Yes  "  (with  a  weary  yawn) ; "  I  shall  not  return  until  I  have 
made  the  tour  of  Europe,  and  I  just  stepped  in  for  a  moment  to 
say  good  bye." 

*'  Unusually  kind,"  said  I,  with  a  sneer. 

He  remained  silent  for  a  few  minutes,  and  seemed  slightly 
embarrassed,  as  if  he  found  difficulty  in  bringing  out  what  he 
had  to  say. 

"  Geoffrey,  I  may  be  absent  several  years.  It  is  just  possible 
that  we  may  never  meet  again." 

"  I  hope  so,"  was  the  response  in  my  heart,  while  he  con- 
tinued—   . 

"  Your  time  in  this  office  expires  when  you  reach  your  major- 
ity. Our  paths  in  life  are  very  different,  and  from  that  period 
I  must  insist  upon  our  remaining  perfect  strangers  to  each  other.'* 


od 


THE     MONCTONS 


\ 


Before  I  had  time  to  answer  iiis  ungracious  speech,  he  turned 
upon  his  heel  and  left  the  office,  and  me  literally  foaming  with 
passion. 

"  Thank  God  he  is  gone  I"  cried  Harrison.  "  My  dear  GeoflF, 
accept  my  sincere  congratulations.  It  would  indeed  be  a  bless- 
ing did  you  never  meet  again." 

"  Oh,  that  he  had  stayed  another  minute,  that  I  might  have 
demolished  the  foul  biped  of  his  gay  plumes." 

"  Don't  be  vindictive." 

"  I'm  so  angry — so  mortified,  George,  I  can  scarcely  control 
myself" 

"  Nonsense.     His  departure  is  a  fortunate  event  for  you," 

"Of  course — the  absence  of  one  so  actively  annoying,  must 
make  my  bondage  more  tolerable," 

"  Listen  to  me,  petulant  boy  !  There  is  war  in  the  camp. 
Theophilus  leaves  the  house  under  the  ban  of  his  father's  anger. 
They  have  had  a  desperate  quarrel,  and  he  quits  London  in  dis- 
grace ;  and  if  you  are  not  a  gainer  by  this  change  in  the  domes- 
tic arrangements,  my  name  is  not  George  Harrison." 

"  Why  do  you  think  so  ?" 

"  Because  I  know  more  of  Robert  Moncton  than  yon  do.  To 
provoke  his  son  to  jealousy,  he  will  take  you  into  favor.  If 
Theophilus  has  gone  too  far — he  is  so  revengeful,  so  unforgiv- 
ing— he  may,  probably,  make  you  his  heir." 

"  May  God  forbid  !"  cried  I,  vehemently. 

Ha^'rison  laughed. 

"  Gold  is  too  bright  to  betray  t}  j  dirty  channels  through 
which  it  flows — and  I  feel  certain,  Geoffrey  " 

A  quick  rap  at  the  office  door  terminated  all  further  colloquy, 
and  I  rose  to  admit  the  intruder. 

Harrison  and  I  generally  wrote  in  an  inner  room,  which 
opened  into  the  public  office  ;  and  a  passage  led  from  the  apart- 
ment we  occupied,  into  Mr.  Moncton's  private  study,  in  which 
he  generally  spent  the  fore-part  of  the  day,  and  in  which  he 
received  persons  who  came  to  consult  him  on  particular  business. 


y 

I 


:? 


^'rrr-^-'  TT'-^r'' 


# 


THE     HON  OTONS. 


61 


I- 


On  opening  the  door  which  led  into  the  public  office,  a  woman 
wrapped  closely  in  a  black  camblet  cloak,  glided  into  the  room. 

Her  face  was  so  completely  concealed  by  the  large  calash  and 
veil  she  wort;,  and,  but  for  the  stoop  in  the  shoulders,  it  would 
have  been  difficult  at  a  first  glance  to  have  determined  her  age. 

"  Is  Mr.  Moncton  at  home  ?"  Her  voice  was  harsh  and 
unpleasant ;  it  had  a  hissing,  grating  intonation,  which  was 
painful  to  the  ear. 

The  moment  the  stranger  spoke,  I  saw  Harrison  start,  and 
turn  very  pale.  He  rose  hastily  from  his  seat  and  walked  to  a 
case  of  law-books  which  stood  in  a  dark  recess,  and  taking  down 
a  volume,  continued  standing  with  his  back  towards  us,  as  if 
intently  occupied  with  its  contents. 

This  circumstance  made  me  regard  the  woman  with  more 
attention.  She  appeared  about  sixty  years  of  age.  Her  face 
was  sharp,  her  eyes  black  and  snake-like,  while  her  brow  was 
Qshannelled  into  deep  furrows  that  made  you  think  it  almost 
impossible  that  she  had  ever  been  young  or  handsome.  Her 
upper  lip  was  unusually  short,  and  seemed  to  writhe  with  a 
perpetual  sneer ;  and  in  spite  of  her  corrugated  brow,  long  nose, 
and  curved  chin,  which  bore  the  unmistakable  marks  of  age, 
her  fine  teeth  gleamed  white  and  ghastly,  when  she  unclosed  her 
fleshless,  thin  lips.  A  human  creature  with  a  worse,  or  more' 
sinister  aspect,  I  have  seldom,  during  the  course  of  my  life, 
beheld. 

In  answer  to  her  inquiry,  I  informed  her  that  Mr.  Moncton 
was  at  home,  but  particularly  engaged  ;  and  had  gi.en  orders 
for  no  one  to  be  admitted  to  his  study  before  noon, 

"With  a  look  of  bitter  disappointment,  she  then  asked  to  speak 
to  Mr.  Theophilus. 

"  He  has  just  left  for  Erance,  and  will  not  return  for  several 
years." 

If 


<< 


",  Gone  ! — and  I  am  too  late,"  she  muttered  to  herself. 
I  cannot  see  the  son,  I  viust  and  will  speak  to  the  father." 
"  Your  business  then,  was  with  Mr.  Theophilus  ?"  said  I,  no 


4ii 


^i%-''H 


-.9' 


>i 


62 


THE     MONO TONS. 


longer  able  to  restrain  my  curiosity,  for  I  was  dying  to  learn 
something  of  the  strange  being  whose  presence  had  given  my 
friend  HarriJ^on's  nervos  such  a  sudden  shock. 

"  ImpertincLt  boy  I"  she  said  with  evident  displeasure. 
"  Who  taught  you  to  catechise  your  elders  ?  Go,  and  tell  your 
employer  that  Di  ,h  North  is  here ;  and  miist  see  him  imme- 
diately." 

As  I  passed  the  dark  nook  in  which  Harrison  was  playing 
at  hide-and-seek,  he  laid  his  hand  upon  my  arm,  and  whispered  in 
French,  a  language  he  spoke  fluently,  and  in  which  he  had  been 
giving  me  lessons  for  some  time,  "  My  happiness  is  deeply  con- 
cerned in  yon  hag's  commission.  Read  well  Moncton's  counte- 
nance, and  note  down  his  words,  while  you  deliver  her  message, 
and  report  your  observations  to  me."  , 

I  looked  up  in  his  face  with  astonishment.  His  countenance 
was  livid  with  excitement  and  agitation,  and  his  whole  frame 
trembled.  Before  I  could  utter  a  word,  he  had  quitted  the  office. 
Amazed  and  bewildered,  I  glanced  back  towards  the  being,  who 
was  the  cause  of  this  emotion,  and  whom  I  now  regarded  with 
intense  interest. 

She  had  sunk  down  into  Harrison's  vacant  seat,  her  elbows 
supported  on  her  knees,  and  her  head  resting  between  the  palms 
of  her  hands.  Her  face  completely  concealed  from  observation. 
"  Dinah  North,"  I  whispered  to  myself;  "that  is  a  name  I  never 
heard  before.  Who  the  deuce  can  she  be  ?"  With  a  flushed 
cheek  and  hurried  step  I  hastened  to  my  uncle's  study  to  deliver 
her  message. 

I  found  him  alone  ;  he  was  seated  at  the  table,  looking  over 
a  long  roll  of  parchment.  He  was  much  displeased  at  the  inter- 
ruption, and  reproved  me  in  a  stern  voice  for  disobeying  his  posi- 
tive orders  ;  and,  ty  way  of  conciliation,  I  repeated  my  errand. 

"  Tell  that  woman,"  he  cried,  in  a  voice  hoarse  with  emotion, 
"  that  I  will  not  see  her  1  nor  any  one  belonging  to  her." 

"The  mystery  thickens,"  thought  I.  "What  can  all  this 
mean  ?" 


hai 

of 

sac] 

and 

diffi 

ousl 


THEMONGTONS.  'W§ 

"  Oa  re-entoring  the  office,  I  found  the  old  woman  huddled  up 
in  her  wet  clothes,  in  the  same  dejected  attitude  in  v  hich  I  had 
itft  her.  When  I  addressed  her,  she  raised  her  head  with  a  fierce, 
menacing  gesture.  She  evidently  mistook  me  for  Mr.  Moncton, 
and  smiled  disdainfully  on  perceiving  her  error.  When  I 
repeated  his  answer,  it  was  received  ^ith  a  bitter  and  derisive 
laugh. 

*' He  will  not  see  me  ?" 

"  I  have  given  you  my  uncle's  answer." 

"  Uncle ! "  she  cried,  with  a  repetition  of  the  same  horrid  lau^ifh. 
"  By  courtesy,  I  suppose  ;  I  was  not  aware  that  there  w,is 
another  shoot  of  that  accursed  tree." 

I  gazed  upon  her  like  one  in  a  dream.  The  old  woman  drev 
a  slip  of  paper  from  her  bosom,  bidding  me  convey  thai  to  my 
worthy  uncle,  and  a&k  him,  in  her  name,  "whether  he,  or  his  son, 
dared  to  refuse  admittance  to  thd  bcrer." 

I  took  the  billet  from  her  withered  hand,  and  once  more  pro- 
ceeded to  the  study.  As  I  passed  through  the  passage,  an  irre- 
sistible impulse  of  curiosity  induced  me  to  read  the  paper,  which 
was  neatly  folded  (although  unsealed)  together,  and  my  eye 
glanced  upon  the  following  words,  traced  in  characters  of  uncom- 
mon beauty  and  delicacy  :  ' 

"  If  Robert  Moncton  refuses  to  admit  my  claims,  and  to  do  me  justice,  I 
will  expose  his  villainy,  and  bis  sou's  heartless  desertion,  to  tbe  world. 

"A.M." 


Ihis 


I  had  scarcely  read  the  mysterious  billet  than  I  felt  that  1 
had  done  wrong — had  acted  basely ;  that  whatever  the  contents 
of  the  paper  entrusted  to  my  kee[ing  might  be,  they  were 
sacred,  and  I  had  no  right  to  violate  them.  I  was  humbled 
and  abashed  in  my  own  eyes,  and  the  riddle  appeared  as 
difficult  of  solution  as  ever.  My  uncle's  voice  sounded  as  omin- 
ously in  my  ears  as  the  stroke  of  a  death-bell,  as  he  called  me 


^1 


( 


THE     MON0TON8 


sharply  by  name.  Hastily  J'e-folding  the  note,  I  went  into  his 
study,  and  placed  it  on  the  table  before  hira,  with  an  averted 
glance  and  trembling  li^nd.  I  dreaded  lest  his  keen,  clear  eye 
should  read  guilt  in  my  conscious  face.  Fortunately  for  me,  ho 
was  too  much  agitated  himself  to  notice  my  confusion.  He 
eagerly  clutched  the  paper,  and  his  aspect  grew  dark  as  ho 
perused  it. 

"Geoffrey,"  he  said,  and  his  voice,  generally  so  clear  and 
passionless,  sqnk  into  a  choking  whisper,  "  Is  that  woman 
gone  ?" 

"  No,  uncle,  she  is  still  there,  and  dares  you  to  refuse  her 
admittance." 

I  had  thought  Robert  Moncton  icy  and  immovable — that  his 
blood  never  flowed  like  the  blood  of  other  men.  I  had  deceived 
myself.  Beneath  the  snow-capped  mountain,  the  volcano  con- 
ceals its  hottest  fires.  My  uncle's  cold  exterior  was  but  the  icy 
crust  that  hid  the  fierce  passions  that  burnt  within  his  breast. 
He  forgot  my  presence  in  the  excitement  of  the  moment,  and 
that  stern,  unfeeling  eye  blazed  with  lurid  fire. 

"  Fool  I — madman — insane  idiot  1"  he  cried,  tearing  the  note 
to  pieces,  and  trampling  on  the  fragments  in  his  ungovernable 
rage  ;  "  how  have  you  marred  your  own  fortune,  destroyed  your 
best  hopes,  and  annihilated  all  my  plans  for  your  future  advance- 
ment 1" 

Suddenly  he  became  conscious  of  my  presence,  and  glancing 
at  me  with  his  usual  iron  gravity,  said,  with  an  expression  of 
haughty  indiifereuce,  as  if  my  opinion  of  his  extraordinary  con- 
duct was  a  matter  of  no  importance, 

**  Geoffrey,  go  and  tell  that  mad-woman But  no.     I 

will  go  myself," 

He  advanced  to  the  door,  seemed  again  irresolute,  and  finally 
bade  me  show  her  into  the  study.  Dinah  North  rose  with  alac- 
rity to  obey  the  summons,  and  for  a  person  of  her  years,  seemed 
to  possess  great  activity  of  mind  and  body.     I  felt  a  secret 


« 


with 


THE     MONOTONB. 


lancing 

lion  of 

:y  con- 

Ino.    I 

finally 
til  alac- 
I  seemed 
secret 


loathinp:  for  the  hag,  nnd  pitied  my  uncle  the  unpleasant  confer- 
ence which  I  was  certain  awaited  him. 

Mr.  Moncton  had  resumed  his  seat  in  his  large  study  chair,' 
and  he  rose  with  such  calm  dignity  to  receive  his  unwelcome 
visitor,  that  his  late  agitation  appeared  a  delusion  of  my  own 
heated  imagination. 

Curiosity  was  one  of  my  besetting  sins.  Ah,  how  I  longed  to 
know  the  substance  of  their  discourse  ;  for  I  felt  a  mysterious 
presentiment  that  in  some  way  or  another,  my  future  destiny 
was  connected  with  this  stranger.  I  recalled  the  distress  of 
Harrison,  the  dark  hints  he  had  thrown  out  respecting  me,  and 
his  evident  knowledge,  not  only  of  the  old  woman,  but  of  tho 
purport  of  her  visit. 

I  was  tortured  with  conjectures.  I  lingered  in  the  passage. 
I  applied  my  ear  to  the  key-hole  ;  but  the  conversation  was 
carried  on  in  too  low  a  tone  for  me  even  to  distinguish  a  solitary 
monosyllable  ;  and  ashamed  of  acting  the  part  of  a  spy,  I  stole 
back  with  noiseless  steps  to  ray  place  in  the  office.  I  found 
George  at  his  desk  ;  his  face  was  very  pale,  and  I  thought  I 
could  perceive  the  trace  of  tears  on  his  swollen  eye-lids.  For 
some  time  he  wrote  on  in  silence,  without  asking  a  word  about 
the  secret  that  I  was  burning  ^^  tell.  I  was  the  first  to  speak 
and  lecid  him  to  the  subject. 

"  Dear  George,  do  you  know  that  horrible  old  woman  ?" 

"  Too  well ;  she  is  my  grandmother,  and  nursed  me  in  my 
infancy." 

"  Then,  what  made  you  so  anxious  to  avoid  a  recognition  ?" 

"  I  did  not  want  her  to  know  that  I  was  living.  She  believes 
me  dead  :  nay  more — "  he  continued,  lowering  his  voice  to  a 
whisper,  "  she  thinks  she  murdered  me.  His  lips  quivered  as  he 
murmured,  in  half-smothered  tones  :  "And  she — the  beautiful, 
the  lost  one — what  will  become  of  her  ?" 

"  Oh,  Harrison  1"  I  cried,  "  do  speak  out ;  nor  torture  me 
with  these  dark  hints.    If  you  are  a  true  friend,  give  mo  your 


A6 


THE     MUNOTONS 


i 


whole  couQdenco,  uor  lot  your  silonco  giro  riso  to  painful  conjoc- 
turos  nnd  doubtH.  I  biiVo  no  concealments  from  you.  Such 
mental  reservation  on  your  part  m  every  thing  but  kind." 

**  I  frankly  acknowledge  that  you  have  just  cause  t»  suspect 
me/'  said  George,  with  his  usual  sad,  winning  smile.  "  But  this 
is  not  a  safe  i>laco  to  discuss  matters  of  vital  interest  to  us 
both — matters  which  involve  life  and  death.  I  trust  to  clear 
up  the  mystery  one  of  these  days,  and  for  that  purpose  I  am 
hero.  But  tell  me  :  how  did  Monctoa  receive  this  womau— 
this  Dinah  North  ?" 

I  related  tlu)  scene,  without  omitting  the  dishonorable  part  I 
had  acted  in  it.  When  I  repeated  the  contents  of  the  note,  his 
calm  face  crimsoned  with  passion,  his  eyes  flashed,  and  his  lips 
quivered  with  indignation. 

"Yes,  I  thought  it  would  come  to  that ;  unhappy,  miserable 
Alice  1  how  could  you  bestow  the  allections  of  a  warm,  true 
heart  on  a  despicable  wretch  like  Tlieophilus  Moncton.  The 
old  fiend's  ambition  and  this  fatal  passion  have  been  your  ruin." 
For  some  time  he  remained  with  his  face  bowed  upon  his 
hands  ;  at  length,  raising  his  head,  and  turning  to  mo  with 
great  animation,  he  asked  if  I  knew  any  of  my  father's  relations, 
besides  Robert  Moncton  and  his  son  ? 

"  I  was  not  aware  that  I  had  any  other  relatives." 
"  They  are  by  no  means  a  prolific  race,  Geoffrey.     And  has 
your  insatiable  curiosity  never  led  you  to  make  the  inquiry  ?" 
"  I  dared  not  ask  my  uncle.     My  aunt  told  me  that,  but  for 

them,  I  should  be  alone  in  the  world. 

"  It  was  a  subject  never  discussed  before  me,"  I  continued, 
after  a  long  pause,  in  which  George  seemed  busy  with  his  own 
thoughts.  "  I  understood  that  my  uncle  had  only  one  brother." 
"True,"  said  George,  "  but  he  has  a  cousin  ;  a  man  of  great 
wealth  and  consequence.  Did  you  never  hear  Theophilus  men- 
tion Sir  Alexander  Moncton  ?" 
*'  Never." 


ti 


TM  K     MONCTO  N  H. 


67 


irable 

,  true 

The 

-uio." 

1  his 

with 


id  has 


lilt  for 


inaed, 

is  own 


ther 


V 


great 
men- 


"  Nor  to  whom  hia  long  visits  in  Yorkshire  were  made  V* 

'*IIow  should  I  ?  No  conildonce  oxistod  between  us.  I  was 
indiflfurent  to  all  his  movements  ;  not  imagining  that  the^r  could, 
in  any  degree,  interest  me." 

"  1  begin  to  see  my  way  througii  this  tangled  maze,"  returned 
George,  musingly.  "  I  now  understand  the  secluded  manner  in 
which  you  have  been  brought  up  ;  and  tlieir  reasons  for  keeping 
you  a  prisoner  within  those  walls.  They  have  an  important 
game  to  play,  in  which  they  do  not  want  you  to  act  a  conspicu- 
ous part.  I  can  whisper  a  secret  into  your  ears  well  worth  the 
knowing — ay,  and  tho  keeping,  too.  C  :offrey  Moncton,  you 
are  this  Sir  Alexander's  heir !" 

A  sudden  thrill  shot  through  my  whole  frame.  It  was  not 
pleasure,  for  at  that  moment  I  felt  sad  enough — nor  hope,  »r  I 
had  long  accustomed  myself  to  look  only  on  the  dark  sid  c'  the 
picture.  It  was,  I  fear,  revenge  ;  a  burning  desir  ^o  pay  back 
the  insults  and  injuries  I  had  received  from  Theop  ului;  Moncton, 
and  to  frustrate  the  maua3uvres  of  his  designing  father. 

"  Has  Sir  Alexander  no  children  ?" 

"  He  has  a  daughter — an  only  daughter,  a  fair,  fragile  girl  of 
sixteen.  The  noblest,  the  most  disinterested  of  her  sex  ;  a  crea- 
ture as  talented  as  she  is  beautiful.  Margaretta  Moncton  is 
destined  to  be  the  wife  of  her  cousin  Theophilus." 

"  Does  he  love  her  ?" 

"How  can  you  ask  that  question,  knowing  the  man,  and  after 
having  read  the  note  addressed  to  your  vii't'.o  ?" 

"  That  note  was  signed  A M " 

"  It  was  written  by  an  unhappy,  inratuated  creature,  whom 
Theophilus  did  love,  if  such  a  passion  as  his  callous  bosom  can 
feel,  deserves  the  name.  But  he  shall  not  escape  my  vengeance. 
The  arrow  is  in  the  bow,  and  a  punishment  as  terrible  as  his 
crime,  shall  overtake  him  yet." 

"  Oh,  that  you  would  enter  more  fully  into  these  dark  details. 
You  are  ingenious  at  tormenting.  I  am  bewildered  and  lost 
amid  these  half  disclosures. 


68 


THE     MONCTONS 


. 


!! 


"  Hash,  Geoffrey  I  tlic^e  walls  have  ears.  I,  too,  am  tor- 
tared,  maddened  by  your  questions.  You  are  too  imprudent — 
too  impulsive,  to  trust  with  matters  of  such  vital  importance  ;  I 
have  revealed  too  much  already.  Try  and  forget  the  events  of 
this  morning — nor  let  your  uncle  discover  by  look,  word  or  ges- 
ture, that  you  are  in  the  possession  of  his  secret.  He  is  deeply 
offended  with  his  son — not  on  account  of  his  base  conduct  to  this 
poor  orphan  girl — but,  because  it  is  likely  to  hinder  his  marriage 
with  Miss  Moncton,  which  has  been  for  years  the  idol  wish  of 
his  heart.  His  morose  spirit,  once  aroused,  is  deadly  and 
implacable  ;  and  in  order  to  make  Theophilus  feel  the  full 
weight  of  his  anger,  he  may  call  you  to  fill  his  vacant  place." 

The  sound  of  Mr.  Moncton's  step  in  the  passage,  put  a  sudden 
stop  to  our  conversation,  but  enough  had  been  said  to  rouse  my 
curiosity  to  the  highest  pitch  ;  and  I  tried  in  vain  to  lift  tho 
dark  veil  of  futurity — to  penetrate  the  mysteries  that  its  folds 
concealed. 


-♦►■ 


CHAPTER    X. 


DREAMS. 


(      I 


I  WENT  to  bed  early,  and  tried  in  vain  to  sleep.  The  events 
of  the  past  day  swam  contiunally  through  my  brain,  and  brought 
on  a  nervous  headache.  All  the  blood  in  my  body  seemed 
concentered  in  my  head,  leaving  my  feet  and  hands  paralyzed 
with  cold.  After  tossing  about  for  many  hours,  I  dropped  off 
into  a  sort  of  mesmeric  sleep,  full  of  confused  images,  among 
which  the  singular  face  of  Dinah  North  haunted  me  like  tho 
genius  of  the  night-mare. 

Dreams  are  one  of  the  greatest  mysteries  in  the  unsolved 
problem  of  life.    I  have  been  a  dreamer  from  my  cradle,  and  if 


THE     MONCTONS 


69 


events 

)rouglit 

seemed 

^ralyzed 

|)ped  off 

among 
like  tlio 

Insolved 
and  if 


any  person  could  explain  the  phenomena,  the  practical  experienco 
of  a  long  life  ought  to  have  invested  me  with  that  power. 

Most  persons,  in  spite  of  themselves  (or  what  they  consider  to 
be  their  better  judgment),  attach  a  superstitious  importance  to 
these  visions  of  the  night ;  nor  is  the  vague  belief  in  the 
spiritual  agency  employed  in  dreams,  diminished  by  the  remark- 
able dreams  and  their  fulfillment,  which  are  recorded  in  Holy 
writ,  the  verity  of  which  we  are  taught  to  believe  as  an  article 
of  faith. 

My  eyes  are  scarcely  closed  in  sleep,  before  I  become  an  actor 
in  scenes  of  the  most  ludicrous  or  terrific  nature.  All  my 
mental  and  physical  faculties  become  intensified,  and  enjoy  the 
highest  state  of  perfection  ;  as  if  the  soul  centered  :n  itself  the 
qualities  of  its  mysterious  triune  existence.  ♦ 

Beautiful  visions  float  before  the  sight,  such  as  the  waking 
eye  never  beheld ;  and  the  ear  is  ravished*  with  music  which  no 
earthly  skill  could  produce.  The  dreaming  sense  magnifies  all 
sounds  and  sights  which  exist  in  nature. 

Thfc  thunder  deepens  its  sonorous  tone — ocean  sends  up  a 
louder  voice,  and  the  whirlwind  shakes  the  bending  forest  with 
tenfold  fury. 

I  have  beheld  in  sleep  the  mountains  reel ;  the  yawning  earth 
disclose  her  hidden  depths,  and  the  fiery  abyss  swarm  with 
hideous  forms,  which  no  waking  eye  could  contemplate  and  the 
mind  retain  its  rationality.  I  have  beheld  the  shrinking  sea 
yield  up  the  dead  of  ages,  and  have  found  myself  a  guilty  and 
condemned  wretch,  trembling  at  the  bar  of  Eternal  Justice. 

"  Oh  1  what  have  I  not  beheld  in  sleep  ?" 

I  have  been  shut  up,  a  living  sentient  creature,  in  the  cold, 
dark,  noisome  grave  ;  have  felt  the  loathsome  worm  slide  along 
my  warm,  quivering  limbs  ;  the  toad  find  a  resting-place  upon 
my  breast ;  the  adder  wreath  her  slimy  folds  round  my  swelling 
throat ;  have  struggled  against  the  earthly  weight  that  pressed 
out  my  soul  and  palsied  my  bursting  heart,  with  superhuman 
strength  ;  but  every  effort  to  free  myself  from  my  prison  of  clay 


70 


THE     MONOTON  S 


. 


was  made  in  vain.  My  lips  were  motionless — my  tongue  clave 
to  the  roof  of  my  mouth  and  refused  to  send  forth  a  sound. 
Hope  was  extinct — I  was  beyond  the  reach  of  human  aid  ;  and 
that  mental  agony  rendered  me  as  powerless,  as  a  moth  in  the 
grasp  of  a  giant. 

-  I  have  stood  upon  the  edge  of  the  volcano,  and  listened  to 
the  throbbings  of  Nature's  fiery  heart ;  and  heard  the  boiling 
blood  of  earth,  chafing  and  roaring  far  below ;  while  my  eyes 
vainly  endeavored  to  explore  its  glowing  depths.  Anon,  by 
some  fatal  necessity,  I  was  compelled  to  cross  this  terrible  abyss 
— my  bridge,  a  narrow  plank  insecurely  placed  upon  the  rounded 
stems  of  two  yielding,  sapling  trees.  Suddenly,  frightful  cries 
resounded  on  every  side,  and  I  was  pursued  by  fiend-like  forms 
in  the  shape  of  animal  life.  I  put  my  foot  upon  the  fearful 
bridge,  I  tried  its  strength,  and  felt  a  horrid  consciousness  that 
I  never  could  pass  over  it  in  safety  ;  my  supernatural  enemies 
drew  nearer — I  saw  their  blazing  eyes — heard  their  low  muttered 
growls  ;  the  next  moment  I  leaped  upon  the  plank — with  a  loud 
crash  it  severed — and  with  the  velocity  of  thought,  I  was  plunged 
headlong  into  the  boiling  gulf — down — down — down — for  evet 
whirling  down — the  hot  flood  rushed  over  mo.  I  felt  the  spas- 
modic grasp  of  death  upon  my  throat,  auJ  awoke  struggling 
with  eternity  upon  the  threshold  of  time. 

Most  persons  of  a  reflective  character,  have  kept  a  diary  of 
the  ordinary  occurrences  of  life.  I  reversed  this  time,  honored 
mental  exercise  ;  and  for  some  months,  noted  down  what  I 
could  remember  of  the  transactions  of  the  mind,  during  its 
sleeping  hours. 

So  wild  ana  strange  were  these  records — so  eccentric  the 
vagaries  of  the  soul  during  its  nocturnal  wanderings,  that  I  was 
induced  to  abandon  the  task,  lest  some  friend  hereafter,  might 
examine  the  mystic  scroll,  and  conclude  that  it  was  written  by 
a  maniac. 

It  happened,  that  on  the  present  night.  T  was  haunted  by  a 
dream  of  more  than  ordinary  wildness. 


THE     MONCTONS. 


•II 


Javy  of 
)nored 
hat  I 

PS  i*'^ 

the 
I  was 
1  iniglit 
Iten  by 


by 


a 


I  dreamt,  that  I  stood  in  th-^  centre  of  a  boundless  plain  of 
sand,  that  undulated  beneath  my  feet  like  the  waves  of  the 
sea.  ,  Presently  I  heard  the  rushing  of  a  mighty  wind,  and  as 
the  whirl-blast  swept  over  the  desert,  clouds  of  sand  were  dri- 
ven before  it,  and  I  was  lifted  off  my  feet  and  carried  along  the 
tide  of  dust  as  lightly  as  a  leaf  is  whirled  onward  through  the 
air.  All  objects  fled  as  I  advanced,  and  each  moment  increas- 
ed the  velocity  of  my  flight.  ?  v     .  >  f^f.i « 

A  vast  forest  extended  its  gloomy  arms  athwart  the  horizon  ; 
but  did  not  arrest  my  aerial  journey.  The  thick  boughs  groaned 
and  crashed  beneath  me,  as  I  was  dragged  through  their  mat- 
ted foliage  ;  my  limbs  lacerated  and  torn,  and  my  hair  tangled 
amid  the  thorny  branches.  Vainly  I  endeavored  to  cling  to 
the  twigs  that  impeded  my  passage,  but  they  eluded  my  fren- 
zied grasp,  or  snapped  in  my  hands,  while  my  cries  for  help 
were  drowned  in  the  thundering  sweep  of  the  mighty  gale. 

Onward — onward.  I  was  still  flying  onward  without  the  aid 
of  wings.     There  seemed  no  end  to  that  interminable  flight. 

At  length,  when  I  least  expected  a  change,  I  was  suddenly 
cast  to  the  bottom  of  a  deep  pit.  The  luxury  of  repose  to  my 
wounded  and  exhausted  frame,  was  as  grateful  and  refreshing 
as  the  dews  of  heaven  to  the  long  parched  earth.  I  lay  in  a 
sort  of  pleasing  helplessness,  too  glad  to  escape  from  past  perils 
to  imagine  a  recurrence  of  the  same  evil. 

While  dreamily  watching  the  swallows,  tending  their  young 
in  the  holes  of  the  sandy  bank  that  formed  the  walls  of  my  pri- 
son, I  observed  the  sand  at  the  bottom  of  the  pit  caught  up  in 
little  eddies  and  whirling  round  and  round.  A  sickening  feeling 
of  dread  stole  over  me,  and  I  crouched  down  in  an  agony  of 
fear,  and  clung  with  all  my  strength  to  the  tufts  of  thorny 
shrubs  that  clothed  the  sides  of  the  pit. 

Again  the  wind-fiend  caught  me  up  on  his  broad  pinions,  and 
I  was  once  more  traversing  with  lightning  speed  the  azifro 
deserts  of  air.    A  burning  heat  wns  in  my  throat — my  eyes 


I 


1 


% 


THE    MONCTONS 


Becmed  bursting  from  their  sockets — confused  sounds  were  mur- 
muring in  my  ears,  and  the  very  blackness  of  darkness  swal- 
lowed me  up.  No  longer  earned  upward,  I  was  now  rapidly 
descending  from  some  tremendous  height.  I  stretched  forth 
my  hands  to  grasp  some  tangible  substance  in  order  to  break 
the  horrors  of  that  fall,  but  all  above,  around  and  beneath  me 
was  empty  air ; — the  effort  burst  the  chains  of  that  ghastly 
slumber,  and  I  awoke  with  a  short  stifled  cry  of  terror,  exclaun- 
ing  with  devotional  fervor,  "  Thank  God !  it  is  only  a  dream  I" 
''  The  damp  dews  stood  in  large  drops  upon  my  brow,  my 
hands  were  tightly  clenched,  and  every  hair  upon  my  head 
seemed  stiffened  and  erect  with  fear. 

"  Thank  God  I"  I  once  more  exclftkaed  in  an  agony  of  grati- 
tude, "  it  is  only  a  dream  I'*         ^ 

Then  arose  the  question:  "What  was  the  import  of  this 
dream,  the  effects  of  which  1  still  felt  through  all  my  trembling 
frame — iu  the  violent  throbbing  of  my  heart  and  the  ghastly 
cessation  of  every  emotion  save  that  of  horror?"  "*  "*  ^'* 

Then  I  began  to  ponder,  as  I  had  done  a  thousand  times 
before,  over  the  mysterious  nature  of  dreams,  thi;  manner  in 
which  they  had  been  employed  by  the  Almighty  to  communi- 
cate important  truths  to  mankind,  until  I  came  to  the  conclu- 
sion that  dreams  were  revelations  from  the  spirit  land,  to  warn 
us  of  dangers  that  threatened,  oi*  co  punish  us  for  crimes  cona- 
mitedmthe  flesh.      ...  ^  ,   .      -.        ^  ..  ..;;., 

"  What  are  the  visions  that  haunt  the  murderer's  bed,"  I 
thought,  *'  but  phantoms  of  the  past  recalled  by  memory  and 
conscience,  and  invested  with  an  actual  presence  in  sleep  ?"     *' 

Dr.  Young,  that  melancholy  dreamer  of  sublime  dreams,  has 
said —      n^'  ""       ■'■'^'-.■''       •;■,_ '™«' ■■  ■  .^;  „   ^ 

"  If  dreams  infest  the  grave,       .  '  >  , ,  „    ,,        ,   : ;  Vj 
^j  ,j  I  wake  emerging  from  a  ee^  of  dreams."         "'""-^  \. 


What  a  terrible  idea  of  future  punishment  is  contained  in 


el 


nui 


|:ti 


THE     MONCTONS 


13 


r- 

iiy 

•th 
tak 
me 
jt\y 
lim- 
rxl" 
my 
tiead 

rrati- 

ibling 
bastly 

tunes 
Iner  i^i 
muni- 
;oncla- 
warn 
s  com- 

)ed,"  I 
|ry  aad 

1?" 

IS,  baa 


\. 


lined  iu 


these  words  to  one,  whose  sleep  like  mine  is  haunted  by  unutter- 
able terrors.  Think  of  an  eternity  of  dreaming  horrors.  A 
hell  condensed  within  the  narrow  resting-place  of  the  grave. 

My  reveries  were  abruptly  dispelled  bj  the  sound  of  steps 
along  the  passage  that  led  to  my  chamber.  My  heart  began  to 
beat  audibly.  It  was  the  dead  hour  of  the  night — who  could  be 
waking  at  such  an  unusual  time  ?  I  sat  up  in  the  bed  and  listened. 

I  heard  voices  :  two  persons  were  tallying  in  a  loud  tone  in 
the  passage,  that  was  certain.  For  a  long  time,  I  could  not 
distinguish  one  word  from  another,  until  my  own  name  was 
suddenly  pronounced  in  a  louder  key  ;  and  in  a  voice  which 
seemed  perfectly  famihar  to  my  ears. 

The  garret  in  which  I  slept,  was  a  long,  low,  dingy  apartment 
which  formed  a  sort  of  repository,  for  all  the  worn-out  law 
books,  and  waste  papers  belonging  to  the  office,  and,  as  I  have 
before  stated,  the  only  furniture  it  possessed,  was  a  'mean 
truckle  bed  on  which  I  slept,  and  a  large  iron  chest,  which  Mr. 
Moncton  had  informed  me,  contained  title  deeds  and  other  valu- 
able papers,  of  which  he  himself  kept  the  key. 

They  were  kept  in  my  apartment  for  better  security  ;  as  the 
stair  which  led  to  the  flat  roof  of  the  house,  opened  into  that 
chamber,  and  in  case  of  fire,  the  chest  and  its  contents  could  be 
easily  removed. 

For  a  wonder,  I  had  never  felt  the  least  curiosity  about  the 
chest  and  its  contents. 

It  stood  in  the  old  place,  the  day  I  first  entered  that  dismal 
apartment  when  a  child,  and  during  the  ma-;}  long  years  that 
had  slowly  intervened,  I  never  recollected  having  seen  it  unclosed. 
My  attention  for  the  first  time  was  drawn  to  its  existence  by 
bearing  my  uncle  say  to  some  one  in  the  passage  in  a  nurried 
uuder-tone. 

"  Set  your  mind  at  rest,  the  paper  is  in  the  iron  chest  iu  i^iat 
room.  If  you  will  not  rely  upon  my  promise  to  destroy  it  I  \^ill 
burn  it  before  your  eyes." 


n 


74 


THE    MONCTONS 


**  That  alone  will  satisfy  my  doubts,"  returned  his  companion, 
Be  cautious  how  you  open  the  door,  or  the  lad  will  awake." 
.   "Nonsense,  young  folks  like  him  sleep  well." 

"  Ay,  Robert  Moncton,  they  are  not  troubled  with  an  cyU 
conscience." 

This  last  observation  vas  accompanied  with  a  hw  r^n  ecastic 
laugh — and  with  an  involuntary  shiver,  I  recogiiized  lit  tho 
speaker,  the  mysterious  old  woman-  'ho  had  \auntea  my  dreams. 

"Conscience  never  troubles  me,  Dinah,"  luturueu  Moncton, 
gloomily.  "You  first  taujrUt  me  to  d -own  its  warning  voice, 
till  my  heart  became  callous  and  dead  alike  to  God  and  man. 
Y<^s,  you  will  laugh  at  me  whei:  I  declare,  that  I  would  give  all 
tbar.  I  possess  in  the  world,  to  feel  again  the  reUi^Tse  I  felt  a'.  ;r 
I  joicied  joc  in  tip  cummission  of  that  unholy  deed.  You.  were 
the  tempter.  To  ;ou  I  owe  this  moral  death.  This  awful 
staguauou  of  hoaM,  which  I  find  worse  to  bear  than  the  fiercest 
pain." 

"Yoa  were  n.n  apt  pupil,"  said  the  woman,  "All  vour 
natural  tendencies  were  evil.  I  only  fostered  and  called  them 
out.  Bat  what  is  the  use  of  recalling  unj)lcasant  truths.  Why 
don't  yoL  silence  memory,  when  you  have  ceased  to  foel  remorse. 
But  I  tell  you  what  it  is,  Moncton.  The  presence  of  the  one 
|)roves  the  existence  of  the  other.  The  serpent  is  sleeping  in 
Lis  coil,  anu  one  of  these  days  you  will  feel  the  strength  of  his 
fangs.  Is  this  the  door  that  leads  to  his  chamber  ?  You  have 
chosrn  ft  sorry  dormitory  for  the  heir  of  the  proud  house  of 
*'  Moncton," 

"  Hush  1  I  wish  he  slept  with  his  fathers.  But  even  if  he 
should  awake,  how  could  he  guess,  that  our  visit  to  his  chamber 
could  in  any  way  concern  him  ?" 

"  He  has  a  shrewd  face,  an  intelligent  eye — an  eye  to  detect 
treachery,  and  defy  danger." 

"  On  the  contrary,  a  babe  might  deceive  him." 

*  He  has  been  educated  in  too  hard  a  school  c  )Tel  in  such 
ignorance,  Monct>  ; '' 


i 


THE     MONCTONS. 


15 


i< 


f  bis 
Ihave 
le  of 

lif  he 

lintet 

letect 


sucb 


Hold  your  tongue,  Dinah,  and  give  me  the  light.  Remem- 
ber how  you  were  deceived  in  his  cousin  Philip." 

Mr.  Moncton's  hand  was  on  the  lock  of  the  door — an  almost 
irresistible  impulse  urged  me  to  spring  from  the  bed  and  draw 
the  bolt.  On  second  thoughts,  however,  I  determined  to  feign 
Bleep,  and  watch  all  that  passed." 

Resistance  on  my  part  would  have  been  utterly  useless,  and 
I  was  anxious  to  find  out,  if  possible,  what  connexion  existed 
between  my  uncle,  George  Harrison,  and  this  strange  woman. 

All  this  darted  through  my  mind  on  the  instant ;  the  rays  of 
the  candle  flashed  upon  the  opposite  wall  ;  and  my  uncle,  fol- 
lowed by  his  odious-looking  companion,  entered  the  room. 

My  intention  of  watching  all  their  movements  was  com- 
pletely frustrated  by  Mr.  Moncton,  who,  advancing  with  cau- 
tious steps  to  my  bed-side,  held  up  the  light  in  such  a  man- 
ner as  not  only  to  reveal  my  face,  but  the  attitude  in  which 


"  Is  he  sleeping  ?"  he  whispered  to  his  companion. 

"He  breathes  like  one  in  a  profound  slumber,"  was  the 
reply.  *"Tis  a  fine  lad.  How  much  he  resembles  Sir.  Alex- 
ander ?" 

"His  father,  rather,"  sneered  Moncton.  "He's  a  second 
edition  of  Xed  ;  but  has  got  more  brains.  Thanks  to  his  grand- 
father, Geoffrey,  and  his  own  mother,  who  was  a  beautiful, 
talented  creature.  Stand  by  the  bed,  Dinah,  and  keep  watch 
over  him  while  I  light  that  lamp  which  he  has  left  on  the  win- 
dow-sill, and  search  for  the  papers." 

The  old  woman  took  the  light  from  Mr.  Moncton's  hand,  and 
his  station  beside  my  bed.  My  too  lively  imagination  pictured 
the  witch-like  fa.  e,  with  its  dark,  snaky  eyes,  bending  over  me, 
and  '  "oiinv!  It  .impossible  to  maintain,  with  any  appearance  of 
*"'/' ity,  the  compj!  ire  I  had  a^'^umed.  In  order  to  conceal  the 
excited  state  of  my  mind,  a^d  to  Gonvinc'3  her  of  the  certainty 
of  my  pretended  slumber,  I  threw  out  my  arms,  and  began  to 
toss  and  turn,  and  mutter  in  iny  sleep,  putting  on  all  the  con- 


76 


THE     M0N0TON3. 


tortious  which  generally  conynlse  the  countenance  of  persons 
while  writhing  under  the  influence  of  some  terrible  dream.  A 
state  of  perfect  quiescence  might  have  aroused  suspicion  ;  the 
noise  I  made  completely  lulled  theirs  to  sleep. 

Meanwhile  my  uncle  had  unlocked  the  chest,  and  I  heard  him 
tqss  the  papers  it  contained,  upon  the  floor;  while,  from  time  to 
time,  he  gave  utterance  to  expressions  indicative  of  vexation  and 
disappointment. 

After  examining  the  contents  of  the  box  thoroughly,  and 
returning  the  parchments  to  their  original  place,  he  said  in  a 
mortified  tone  : 

"  The  papers  are  not  here.  How  they  have  been  abstracted 
I  cannot  imagine,  as  I  always  keep  the  key  in  a  private  drawer 
of  my  cabinet,  which  is  known  only  to  myself." 

"Did  you  place  them  there  yourself?"  demanded  the  old 
woman,  in  a  hurried  whisper. 

"  No,  but  Walters,  in  whom'I  placed  the  most  implicit  confi.- 
dence,  assured  me  that  he  placed  them  here  with  his  own  hands. 
He  in?y,  Lowever,  have  destroyed  them,  and  anticipated  my 
wishes." 

"And  you,  with  all  your  cautioL,"  sneered  Dinah  North, 
**  could  trust  an  affair  of  such  importance  to  another." 

"  He  was  my  creature,  sworn  to  secresy,  and  bought  with  my 
money,  whose  interest  was  to  serve,  not  to  betray  me." 

"  A  person  who  is  capable  of  receiving  a  bribe  to  perform  a 
base  action,  Moncton,  is  never  to  be  trusted,  especia)ly  a  low- 
born fellow  like  Walters  ;  and  where,"  she  continued,  aLxiously, 
"  is  this  man  to  be  found  ?" 

"  He  left  twelve  years  ago  for  America,  and  took  out  with 
him,  Michael  Alzure,  my  brother's  old  servant,  and  Mary  Earl, 
the  boy's  nurse,  who  were  the  only  witnesses  to  the  marriage. 
I  wanted  him  to  take  the  boy  himself,  and  adopt  him  into  his 
own  family,  which  would  have  saved  us  all  further  trouble,  but 
this,  to  my  surprise,  he  positively  refused  to  do." 

"  To  what  part  of  /  merica  did  he  emigrate  ?" 


r*.C?JP 


THE     MONCTUNS. 


n 


"  First  to  Boston,  where  he  remained  for  three  years.  He 
then  removed  to  Philadelphia  from  the  latter  place.  I  twice 
received  letters  from  him.  He  had  been  successful  in  business, 
and  talked  of  buying  land  in  the  western  States  ;  for  the  last 
six  years  I  have  never  heard  of  him  or  from  him.  It  is  more^ 
than  probable  that  he  is  long  since  dead."  •"'^  - 

"  People  whom  you  wish  out  of  the  way,  never  die  when  y&a 
want  them^"  said  Dinah,  with  her  peculiar  sneering  laugh. 

"  But  I  think  you  told  me  that  the  " I  could  not  catch  the 

word  which  she  breathed  into  the  ear  of  Mr.  Moncton — "  had 
been  destroyed."      ,  ■      ■■■-■'■' 

"  Yes — yes.  I  burnt  it  with  my  own  hand  ;  this  was  the 
only  document  of  any  consequence,  and  it  is  a  hundred  chances 
to  one,  that  he  ever  recovers  it,  or  meets  with  the  people  who 
could  prove  his  identity."  -  •,  /v.  tm.' 

My  uncle  rosb  irom  his  knees  and  locked  the  iron  chest,  then, 
extinguishing  my  lamp,  he  and  the  old  woman  left  the  room.  '■  f' 

The  sound  of  their  retreating  footsteps  had  scarcely  died 
away,  when,  in  spite  of  my  wish  to  keep  awake,  1  J'ropped  off 
into  a  profound  sleep,  and  did  uot  again  unclose  my  eyes  uo^  \  it 
was  time  to  dress  for  breakfast. 


m 

w 


<t. 


— -*►■ 


CHAPTER    XI. 


■■  '.W 


MY    FIRST    LOVE. 


I  FOUND  my  uncln  sipping  his  coffee,  as  if  nothing  of  import- 
ance had  occurred  during  the  night,  to  disturb  his  slumbers.  I 
took  my  seat  at  the  table  in  silence.  My  heart  was  full  to 
bursti^^,  and  I  dared  not  trust  my  voice,  to  offer  him  the 
con:...  ;i  salutations  of  the  morning.  _  , 


-.1 J  :ii' 


I  \ 


n 


THE     MONCTONS. 


My  face,  I  have  no  doubt,  betrayed  the  agitation  which  I 
endeavored  to  conceal. 

"  You  I  e  late  this  morning,  Geoffrey." 

"Yes  sir — I  passed  a  very  restless  night,  and  the  result  is  a 

.bad  headache." 

Hi 

"  How  did  that  b  4>pcu  ?  -.urveying  me  attentively,  with  his 
clear,  glittering  eyeis, 

"  I  was  haras;scd  by  frightful  dreams,  and  only  awoke  from 
one  fit  of  night-mare  to  fall  into  a  worse."  ^      '■' 

"Are  you  often  troubled  with  bad  'Ir'^"  ^s  ?"  said  he,  without 
removing  his  powerful  gaze  from  my  pule  face. 

"  Not  often  with  such  as  disturbed  ine  last  night." 

I  deti .  i»)d  my  uncle's  drift  in  using  this  species  of  cro.ss-ques- 
tioning,  >i.id  I  determined  to  increase  his  uneasiness  without 
betraying  my  own.  »...    ..w 

"  I  wish,  uncle,  I  had  never  seen  that  old  woman  who  visited 
the  office  yesterday  ;  she  haunted  me  all  night  like  my  evil 
genius.  Sir  Matthew  Hale  might  have  condemned  her  for  a 
witch,  with  a  safe  conscience." 

"  She  is  not  a  very  flattering  specimen  of  the  fair  sex,"  said 
my  uncle,  affecting  a  laugh,  "but  ugly  as  she  now  is,  I  remem- 
ber her  both  youn^-  and  handsome.  What  was  the  purport  of 
your  dream  ?" 

"  That  I  should  like  to  know.  The  Josephs  and  Daniels  of 
these  degenerate  modern  days,  are  makers  of  money,  not  inter- 
preters of  dreams.  Tut,  I  hope  you  lon't  imagine  that  I  place 
the  least  importance  on  such  things.  -My  dream^was  simply 
this — 

"  I  dreamed  that  that  ugly  old  woman,  whom  you  call  Dinah 
North,  came  to  my  bedside  with  an  intent  to  murder  me."  I 
paused  and  fixed  my  eyes  upon  M  Moncton's  face.  The  glitter 
of  his  bright  orbs  almost  dazzle  J  .ne.  I  thought,  however,  that 
his  cheek  paled  for  a  moment,  ard  that  I  could  perceive  a  slight 
tv^  etching  movement  about  the  muscles  of  the  mouth. 


■mmCL 


TUK     MONCTUNil. 


«f 


.    "  Well,"  ho  said,  qu   ^  calmly,  "  and  what  then  ?" 

"  For  a  long  time  I  resisted  her  efforts  to  stab  mo  with  a  long 
knife,  and  I  received  severnl  deep  wounds  in  my  hands,  in  endea- 
voring to  ward  ofiF  her  home-thrusts  ;  till,  faint  with  loss  of  blood, 
I  gave  up  the  contest,  and  called  aloud  for  aid.  I  heard  steps 
in  the  passage — some  one  opened  the  door — it  was  you,  sir,  and 
I  begged  you  to  save  my  life,  and  unloosen  the  fiend's  grasp 
from  my  throat,  but  instead  of  the  assistance  I  expected,  you 
seized  the  knife  from  the  old  woman's  hand,  and  with  a  derisive 
laugh,  plunged  it  to  the  hilt  in  my  heart.  I  awoke  with  a 
scream  of  agony,  and  with  the  perspiration  streaming  from  every 
part  of  my  body."      .  i 

The  dream  was  no  invention  of  the  moment,  but  had  actually 
occurred,  after  Dinah  North  and  Mr.  Moucton  had  left  my  cham- 
ber.    I  wished  to  see  what  impression  it  would  make  upon  him. 

He  leaned  back  in  his  chair  with  his  eyes  still  fixed  on  my 
face.  "  It  was  strange,  very  strange — enough  to  excite  a  nerv- 
ous, irritable  fellow  like  you.  Did  you  hear  me  come  into  your 
room  last  night  ?" 

Taken  by  surprise,  I  gave  an  involuntary  start,  but  regained 
my  presence  of  mind  in  a  moment.  "  Did  you  suspect,  sir,  that 
I  was  in  the  habit  of  leaving  the  house  at  night,  that  you 
thought  it  necessary  to  ascertain  that  I  was  in  my  bed  ?" 

'  Petulant  boy  1  How  ready  you  are  to  take  offence  at 
triflea.  How  do  you  expect  to  steer  your  way  through  the 
world  ?  Business  brought  me  into  your  room  last  night.  Some 
papers  belonging  to  the  woman,  whom  your  feitile  imagination 
has  converted  into  a  witch  or  fiend,  were  in  the  iron  chest. 
Anxious  to  satisfy  her  that  the  papers  were  safe,  I  went  to  look 
for  them.  You  were  making  a  sad  noise  in  your  sleep.  I  was 
half  inclined  to  waken  you,  but  thought  that  my  presence  in 
your  chamber  at  that  hour  of  night  would  only  increase  your 
uneasiness.  The  sound  of  my  steps  in  the  passage,  I  have  no 
doubt,  was  the  immediate  cause  of  your  dream." 


•% 


4 


80 


THE     MONCTUNB. 


-*^. 


This  was  a  masterly  stroke^ and  those  who  knew  Ff'^jr^j 
Monrton,  in  a  moment  would  recognize  the  man.  The  adroit- 
ness with  which  he  mingled  truth  with  falsehood,  almost  made 
me  doubt  the  evidence  of  ray  senses,  and  to  fancy  that  the  events 
of  the  past  night  were  a  mental  delusion. 

"  Did  you  find  the  papers  yoa  wanted,  sir  ?"  *      ''  ' 

His  eye  flashed,  and  his  lip  curled.  "  What  business  is  that 
of  yours,  sir  ?  I  don't  allow  an  impertinent  bo\r  to  pry  into  my 
private  affairs,"      ^ 

"  My  question  was  one  of  idle  curiosity." 

"  Even  as  such,  never  dare  to  repeat  it." 

I  was  struck  dumb,  and  concluded  my  breakfast  without 
speaking  to  him  again.  When  the  tea  equipage  was  removed, 
I  rose  to  leave  the  room,  but  he  motioned  me  to  remain. 

His  anger  had  passed  away,  and  his  really  handsome  face 
wore  a  more  agreeable  expression  than  usual. 

"  Sit  down,  Geoffrey.  I  have  long  wished  to  converse  with 
you  upon  your  future  prospects.  What  progress  have  you  made 
in  your  profession  ?" 

Astonished  at  his  condescension,  I  told  him  candidly  how  I 
had  of  late  improved  my  time,  and  studied  late  and  early  to 
acquire  a  competent  knowledge  of  it  in  all  its  branches. 

He  was  surprised,  and  appeared  agreeably  so. 

"I  had  no  idea  of  this,  Geoffrey.  Your  industry  has  won 
for  you  a  higher  position  than  an  office  drudge.  You  cannot, 
however,  make  an  able  lawyer,  without  some  knowledge  of  the 
orld.  To  make  a  man  of  you  it  is  absolutely  necessary  for 
you  to  go  more  into  society." 

"  You  forget,  sir,  that  I  have  no  means  to  indulge  such  a 
wish.  I  cannot  consent  to  go  into  company  under  existing 
circumstances." 

"Oh,  we  can  manage  all  that,"  he  said,  tapping  me  on  my 
shoulder.  "  Be  obedient  to  my  orders,  and  attend  to  my  inte- 
rest, and  you  shall  not  long  want  the  means  of  gratifying  your 


m 


IN?- 


s 

s 
f( 


-*i,^. 


r.« 


THE     UONCTONS 


81 


It  is  my  intention 


wishes.     Mr.  Tlarrlson  has  left  the  office 
that  you  supply  ius  place." 

"  Harrison  gone  !"  I  cried  in  a  tone  of  vexation  and  regret; 
"  then  I  have  lost  my  best  friend." 

"  Harrison  was  a  clever,  gcritlemauly  young  man,"  said  Mr. 
Moncton,  coldly;  "  but,  to  tell  you  the  plain  truth,  Geoffrey,  I 
did  not  like  the  close  intimacy  which  e.\isted  between  you." 

"  Why,  it  is  to  him  thai  I  am  indebted  for  all  the  know- 
ledge I  have  acquired.  Uis  society  was  the  only  pleasure  I 
had,  and  it  seems  hard  to  be  deprived  of  it,  without  any  fault 
on  his  side." 

"  Geoffrey,  it  is  of  no  consequence  to  me  what  your  opinion 
may  be  on  the  subject ;  I  am  master  of  ray  own  actions,  and 
please  myself  as  to  whom  I  retain  or  employ.  Clear  up  that 
scowling  brow,  and  be  very  thankful  to  obtain  a  handsome 
salary  for  services  which  I  can  command  without  remuneration." 

The  loss  of  my  friend,  my  only  friend,  was  a  dreadful  blow. 
I  was  too  much  overcome  to  thank  my  undo  for  his  offer,  and 
left  the  room  with  the  tears  in  my  eyes. 

I  had  been  so  little  accustomed  to  think  for  myself,  that  J 
relied  upon  George  as  my  counsellor  in  all  matters  of  impri- 
tance.  Besides,  I  had  an  idea  that  he  could  throw  some  lir^l:! 
upon  the  mysterious  events  of  the  night,  and  I  was  fn.\',o.'^ 
to  unburden  to  him  the  important  secret. 

Having  to  obtain  the  signature  of  a  gentleman  who  resit' 1 
in  Fleet  street,  to  some  legal  documents,  and  knowing  thai. 
Harrison  lodged  in  the  same  street,  I  snatched  up  my  hat  and 
sallied  forth,  determined  to  consult  him  with  regard  to  the 
change  in  my  prospects,  as  I  felt  certain,  that  some  sinister 
motive  was  concealed  beneath  my  uncle's  unlooked-for  conde- 
scension. ,_, 

I  was  again  doomed  to  disappointment.  On  reaching  Harri- 
son's lodgings,  I  learned  that  he  had  left  town  that  morning, 
for  a  visit  of  some  weeks  into  the  country,  but  to  what  part 


* 


4* 


™1 


^i 


82 


THE     MONCTO^'S 


his  landlady  didn't  know.     At  parting,  he  told  her  she  might 
rent  his  rooms  until  he  gave  her  notice  of  bis  return. 

"  Gone  I  without  seeing  or  writing  one  line  to  inform  me  of 
his  departure.  It  is  cruel.  Not  like  his  general  conduct,"  I 
mattered,  as  I  turned  from  the  door  :  **  If  he  can  deceive,  I  will 
never  trust  in  mortal  man  again."  ^---^ 

With  a  heavy-  heart  I  sauntered  on  unconscious  of  the  path 
I  had  taken,  until  I  found  myself  entangled  among  the  crowds 
that  thronged  Oxford  street. 

A  scream  !  echoed  by  several  voices  from  the  crowd,  "  that 
the  lady  would  be  crushed  to  death,"  startled  me  from  my 
unprofitable  musings,  and  following  the  direction  of  the  general 
gaze,  I  saw  that  a  young  female,  in  attempting  to  cross  the 
street,  had  just  fallen  between  the  horses  of  two  carriages 
advancing  in  opposite  directions. 

It  was  but  the  impulse  of  the  moment  to  dash  across  the 
intervening  space,  to  seize  the  horses  of  either  carriage  by  their 
bridles,  and  push  them  forcibly  back,  and,  by  so  doing,  hinder 
the  young  lady  from  being  trampled  to  death  beneath  their 
hoofs. 

She,  fortunately,  was  unconscious  of  her  danger,  and  could 
not  hj  useless  screams  and  struggles,  frighten  the  horses,  and 
frustra?;e  my  endeavors  to  save  her. 

The  coachmen  belonging  to  the  vehicles,  succeeded  in  stop- 
ping the  horses,  and  I  bore  my  insensible  burden  through  the 
crowd  to  an  apothecary's  shop,  which  happened  to  be  near  at 
hand. 

The  gentleman  in  attendance  hastened  to  my  assistance.  We 
placed  the  young  lady  in  a  chair,  and  he  told  me  to  remove  her 
bonnet,  while  he  applied  restoratives  to  her  wrists  and  temples. 

Fair  she  was,  and  exceedingly  beautiful.  Her  rich,  black, 
velvet  pelisse,  setting  off  to  great  advantage  the  dazzling 
whiteness  of  her  skin,  and  the  rich  coloring  of  her  sunny 
brown  hair. 


^: 


'^WK- 


THE     MONCTONS. 


83 


My  heart  throbbed  audibly  beneath  the  lovely  head  that 
rested  so  placidly  above  it  ;  and  the  arm  that  supported  her 
graceful  form,  trembled  like  the  leaf  on  the  aspen.  The  glorious 
ideal*  of  my  youthful  fancy  had  assumed  a  tangible  form,  had 
became  a  bright  reality  ;  and  as  I  looked  down  upon  that  cal^, 
gentle  face,  love  took  possession  of  my  heart. 

The  sorrows  of  the  past — the  difficulties  of  my  present  posi- 
tion— my  recent  vexations,  all — all  were  forgotton.  A  new 
spirit  had  passed  into  me,  I  was  only  alive  to  the  delicious  rap- 
ture that  thrilled  through  me. 

First  passiou  is  instantaneous — electrical.  It  cannot  be 
described,  and  can  only  be  communicated  through  the  same 
mysterious  medium. 

People  may  rave  as  they  like  about  the  absurdity  of  love  at 
first  sight  ;  but  the  young  and  sensitive  always  love  at  first 
sight,  and  the  love  of  after  years,  however  better,  and  more 
wisely  bestowed,  is  never  able  to  obliterate  from  tho. heart,  the 
memory  of  those  sudden  and  vivid  impressions  made  upon  it  by 
the  first  electrical  shocks  of  animal  magnetism.  .  ^ 

How  eagerly  I  watched  the  unclosing  of  those  blue  eyes  ; 
yet,  how  timidly  I  shrunk  from  their  first  mild  rays. 

Blushing,  she  rose  from  my  arms,  and  shaking  the  long,  sunny 
ringlets  from  her  face,  she  thanked  me  with  gentle  dignity  for 
the  service  I  had  rendered. 

"But  for  your  prompt  assistance,  I  must  have  lost  my*  life, 
or  at  the  very  least,  been  seriously  injured.  My  poor  thanks 
will  never  convey  to  you  the  deep  grat'';ude  I  feel." 

She  gave  me  her  hand  with  a  charming  frankness,  and  I 
touched  the  white  slender  fingers  with  as  much  reverence  as  if 
she  had  been  a  saint. 

At  this  moment  we  were  joined  by  a  handsome  elderly  lady, 
who  ran  into  the  shop,  exclaiming  in  hurried  tones  : 

"  Where  is  she  ?— where  is  my  child  ?    Is  she  safe  ?" 

"  Yes,  dear  aunt,  thanks  to  this  young  gentleman's  timely  aid, 
wbQ  risked  his  own  life  to  save  mine." 


# 


-fcS?- 


*  ^.  1^7  <^5^ 


84. 


THE     MONOTONS. 


How  shall  we  thank  you — how  shall  we  thank  you,  sir?" 
cried  the  elderly  lady,  seizing  my  hand,  and  all  but  embracing 
me  in  an  extasy  of  gratitude.  "  You  have  rendered  me  a  great 
service — a  great  service  indeed.  Without  that  dear  giili  life 
would  be  a  blank  to  me.  My  Kate,  my  Katel"  she  cried,  clasp- 
ing the  young  lady  in  her  arms,  and  bursting  into  tears,  "you 
don't  know  ho\^  dreadfully  I  felt  when  I  saw  you  under  the 
hoofs  of  those  horses.  My  child!  my  child! — I  can  hardly  yet 
believe  that  you  are  safe." 

The  charming  Kate,  tenderly  kissed  her  weeping  relative, 
and  assured  her  that  she  could  realize  it  all.  That  she  must  not 
fret,  for  she  was  quite  herself  again.  Not  even  hurt  ;  only 
frightened  a  little. 

And  then  she  turned  her  lovely  face  to  me,  on  which  a  tear 
rested,  like  a  dew-drop  upon  the  heart  of  a  rose,  with  such  a 
sweet,  arch  smile,  as  she  said,  "  My  aunt  is  very  nervous,  and  is 
so  fond  of  me  that  her  fears  for  my  safety  have  quite  upset  her. 
The  sooner  we  get  her  home  the  better.  Will  you  be  so  kind, 
sir,  as  to  tell  me  if  a  carriage  is  at  the  door.  Ours  is  blue,  with 
white  horses." 

The  carriage  was  there.  How  I  wished  it  at  Jericho.  The 
old  lady  again  repeated  her  thanks  in  the  warmest  manner,  and 
I  assisted  her  and  her  charming  niece  into  the  equipage.  The 
young  lady  waved  her  hand  and  smiled,  the  powdered  flunkey 
closed  the  door,  and  they  drove  oflf,  leaving  me  spell-bound, 
rooted  to  the  door-  sill  of  the  shop. 

"Who  are  those  ladies  ?"  asked  the  apothecary,  looking  com- 
placently down  upon  the  sovereign  the  elder  lady  had  slipped 
into  his  hand. 

"  I  was  just  going  to  ask  that  question  of  you,"  said  I. 

"  How,  not  know  them — and  let  them  go  away  without  in- 
quiring their  names  !  Arn't  you  a  simple  young  fellow  ?  If  it 
had  been  me,  now,  I  should  have  done  my  best  to  improve 
such  a  golden  opportunity.    Gratitude  you  know,  begets  love, 


m;.^' 


Bb 


1 


THE     MONCTONS. 

and  I'll  be  sworn  that  the  pretty  young  woman  has  a  good 
fortune,  by  the  anxiety  the  old  one  felt  in  her  behalf." 

I  felt  indignant  at  the  apothecary  for  alluding  to  such  a 
vulgar  necessary  of  life  as  money.  I  was  in  the  maddest  heroics 
of  love, 

"  What  do  I  care  about  her  property,"  said  I  disdainfully. 
"  Such  a  beautiful,  elegant  creature,  is  a  fortune  in  herself." 

"  Yes — to  those  who  have  enough  of  their  own.  But  my 
dear  young  sir — beauty  won't  boil  the  pot." 

"  And  who  would  wish  to  degrade  it  to  such  a  menial  occu- 
pation." 

"  Ha,  ha,  ha,  young  man.  You  give  a  literal  meaning  to 
the  old  proverb.     You  must  be  in  love." 

To  joke  me  at  the  expense  of  the  beautiful  unknown  was 
sacrilege,  and  casting  upon  my  tormentor,  a  look  of  unmitigated 
contempt,  I  left  the  shop  with  a  lofty  step  and  an  air  of  offended 
dignity. 

As  I  passed  into  the  street,  I  fancied  that  the  term  "  ridicu- 
lous puppy  I"  was  hissed  after  me. 

I  strode  back  into  the  shop.  The  apothecary  was  waiting 
upon  a  new  customer. 

"  Was  that  insult  intended  for  me,"  I  demanded,  in  a  haugh- 
ty tone. 

"  What  did  I  say,  sir  ?" 

"  You  called  me  a  ridiculous  pappy." 

"You  are  mistaken,  young  man.  I  am  not  in  the  habit  of 
speaking  my  thoughts  aloud." 

I  deserved  this  cut  for  my  folly,  and  felt  keenly  that  I  had 
placed  myself  in  an  absurd  position.  Unable  to  check  the 
passion  that  was  boiling  in  my  veins,  I  levelled  a  blow  at  my 
antagonist,  but  unfortunately,  or  rather  fortunately  I  ought  to 
say,  m^'ssed  my  aim.  The  gentleman  who  was  leaning  on  the 
counter,  and  who  seemed  highly  amused  by  the  scene,  took  me 
by  the  arm  and  led  me  into  the  street.    "  Do  not  you  perceive 


I 


W' 


^0 


4 


86 


THE     MONCTONS 


that  you  are  making  a  fool  of  yourself,  and  giving  the  apothe- 
cary an  advantage  over  you.  Go  home,  and  act  more  prudently 
for  the  time  to  come.  I  am  the  father  of  several  lads  about 
your  age,  and  you  must  take  ray  advice  in  good  part.-' 

Though  I  felt  hurt  and  mortified,  I  cculd  but  thank  my  new 
acquaintance  for  saving  me  from  committing  greater  absur- 
dities.      ,.     .,A\.lfr 

"  My  uncle  is  right,"  I  said,  to  myself,  as  I  retraced  my  steps 
to  Hatton  Garden.  "I  am  a  babe,  in  my  knowledge  of  the 
world,  I  must  go  more  into  society,  or  I  shall  for  ever  be  get- 
ting into  such  ridiculous  scrapes." 

At  dinner  my  uncle  met  me  with  a  serious  face. 

"  What  kept ,  ou  from  the  office,  Geoffrey,  thir  morning." 

I,  willing  to  act  openly  with  him,  narrat>3d  to  him  the  adven- 
ture I  had  met  with. 

"  I  think  I  know  the  lady,"  he  said.  "  She  is  not  very  tall — is 
fair  complexioned,  with  blue  eyes  and  light  brown  hair.  Rather 
pretty  than  otherwise." 

"  Rather  pretty.     She  is  beautiful,  sir." 

"  Phew  1"  said  Mr.  Moncton.  "  We  see  with  other  eyes. 
Young  men  are  always  blind.  The  girl  is  well  enough — and 
better  still,  she  is  very  rich.     Did  she  tell  you  her  name  ?" 

"  I  did  not  ask  her." 

"  Where  was  your  curiosity." 

"  I  wished  very  much  to  put  the  question,  for  I  was  anxious 
to  know  ;  but  really,  wofile,  I  had  not  the  face  to  do  it.  But 
you  can  tell  me." 

"  If  she  did  not  tell  you  herself,  I  am  not  going  to  betray 
her  secret.    What  use  would  the  knowledge  be  to  you  ?" 

"  It  would  be  pleasant  to  know  her  name." 

My  uncle  looked  hard  at  me  ;  and  something  like  a  sarcastic 
smile  passed  over  his  lips. 

"  Boy,  it  would  render  you  miserable." 

"  In  what  way." 


i 


■4/ 


% 


THE     MONCTONS. 


8t 


"  By  leading  you  to  neglect  Business,  and  by  filling  your  head 
with  hopes  which  could  never  be  realized."      >.  -     ,  .V2>:  -    ■-- 

"  And,  why  not  ?"  I  demanded,  rather  fiercely. 

**  Young  ladies  in  our  days,  seldom  commit  matrimony  with 
penniless  clerks." 

This  was  said  with  a  strong  sneer. 

"  It  may  be  so — and  they  are  right  not  to  involve  themselves 
in  misery.  I  am  penniless  at  present.  But  that  is  no  reason 
that  I  am  always  to  remain  so.  I  am  young,  healthy,  industri- 
ous, with  a  mind  willing  and  able  to  work — why  should  I  not 
make  a  fortune  as  others  have  done.  As  my  grandfather,  for 
instance,  did  before  me  ?" 

"  This  is  all  true,"  he  said,  calmly,  *'  and  I  admire  your  spirit, 
Geoffrey  ;  but  nephew"  (this  was  the  first  time  I  ever  remem- 
ber his  calling  me  so),  "  there  are  other  diflScnlties  in  the  way  of 
your  making  a  high  and  wealthy  alliance,  of  which  you  have  no 
idea."  ■  h    ^^f- 

I  know  not  why — but  a  sudden  tremor  seized  hxe  as  he  said 
this.  But  mastering  my  agitation,  I  begged  him  to  explain  his 
meaning. 

"  I  have  long  wished  to  do  so,"  he  said,  "  but  you  were  so 
violent  and  unreasonable,  that  I  thought  it  prudent  to  defer 
unpleasant  communications  until  you  were  older  and  better  able 
to  take  things  calmly.  "  You  have  thought  me  a  hard  task- 
master, Geoffrey — a  cruel  unfeeling  tyrant,  and  from  your 
earliest  childhood  have  defied  ray  authority  and  resisted  my 
will.  Yet — you  know  not  hall  the  debt  of  kindness  you  owe 
to  me." 

I  was  about  to  speak.  He  held  up  his  hand  for  me  to  main- 
tain silcuce  ;  which  I  did  with  a  very  bad  grace  ;  and  he 
continued  in  the  same  cold  methodical  way — 

"  Children  are  naturally  averse  to  control,  and  are  unable  to 
discern  between  sternness  of  manner,  and  a  cold  unfeeling  hard- 
ness of  heart ;  and  construe  into  insults  and  injuries  the 
necessary  restraint  imposed  njon  their  actions  for  their  good. 


^. 


m^' 


tjf^tr 


U 


THE     MONOTONS 


Yours,  I  admit,  was  a  painful  situation,  which  you  rendered  still 
more  unpleasant  by  your  obstinate  and  resentful  disposition." 

"  But,  uncle  I"  I  exclaimed,  unable  longer  to  hold  my  tongue, 
"  you  know  I  was  treated  very  ill." 

"Who  treated  you  so?  I  am  very  certain,  that  Rebecca 
mdulged  you,  as  she  never  did  one  of  her  own  children." 

"  My  dear  aunt  I  God  bless  her — she  was  the  only  creature 
iu  the  house  that  treated  me  with  the  least  kindness.  The  very 
servants  were  instructed  to  slight  and  insult  me  by  your 
amiable  son,  and  his  servile  tutor."  .-.,■• 

"He  was  a  fool,"  said  Mr.  Moncton,  re-filling  his  glass. 
''  As  to  Theophilus,  it  was  natural  for  him  to  dislike  the  lad 
who  had  robbed  him  of  his  mother's  afiFectious,  and  who  left 
iiim  behind  in  his  lessons.  You  were  strong  enough,  and  bold 
enough  to  take  your  own  part — and  if  I  mistake  not,  did  take  it. 
And  pray,  sir,  who  was  it,  that  freed  you  from  the  tyranny  of 
l^L.  Jones,  when  he  found  that  the  complaints  you  brought 
against  him  were  just  ?" 

"  But  not  until  after  I  had  been  first  condemned,  and  brutally 
maltreated.     The  less  said  on  that  score,  uncle,  the  better." 

He  laughed — his  low,  sarcastic,  sneering  laugh — but  did  not 
choose  to  hj  angry. 

"  There  are  circumstances  connected  with  your  birth,  G-eof- 
frey,  that  evidently  were  the  cause  of  these  slights.  People 
will  not  pay  the  same  respect  to  a  natural  child,  which  they  do 
to  a  legitimate  one." 

"Good  God  !"  I  exclain^ed,  starting  from  my  chair.  "You 
don't  mean  to  insinuate.  You  dare  not  say,  that  I  am  a 
bastard  ?" 

"  Such  is  the  fact." 

"It  is  a  lie  ! — a  base  lie  inventea  to  ruin  me  !"  I  cried, 
defiantly,  and  shaking  my  fist  in  his  face.  "  One  of  these  days 
you  shall  be  forced  to  prove  it  such." 

"  I  shall  be  very  happy  to  do  so — if  you  will  only  give  me 
the  proofs." 


i^MiiLitUft^ 


THE     MO>CT0Na 


89 


**  "  Proofs  /"   I  exclaimed,  bitterly,   "  they  are  in  your  own 
possession — or  you  have  destroyed  them  1"    ■"  '  ■-  -    i-f-^  <»  ?'*^<«5«i 
'  "  What  interest  can  I  have  in  trying  to  make  you  a  bastard  ? 
Is  the  boy  mad  ?"  .     *    <  ■^^  •   '';^^J*^**^ 

*  "  You  never  act  without  a  motive,"  I  cried  ;  "you  know  that 
I  am  heir  to  a  title,  and  property  that  you  covet  for  yourself . 
and  your  son  1" 

His  pretended  calmness  was  all  gone.  His  pale  face 
crimsoned  with  rage.  Yet  it  was  wonderful  how  insthntane- 
ously  ho  mastered  his  passion. 

•■    "  Who  told  you  this  prohahle  story  ?    Who  put  such  absurd 
notions  Into  your  head  ?" 

"  One,  upon  whose  word  I  can  rely.  My  friend,  Mr.  Har- 
rison." 

"  I  would  like  to  ask  Mr.  Harrison  what  he  knows  of  our 
family  aflfairs,"  sneered  Mr.  Moncton.  "  He  has  proved  himself 
a  scoundrel  by  inventing  this  pretty  little  romance  to  get  up  a 
quarrel  between  us,  and  rob  you  of  the  only  real  friend  you 
have.  I  will  repay  Mr.  Harrison  for  this  base  falsehood,  one 
of  these  days. 

I  felt  that  I  had  betrayed  my  friend,  and,  perhaps,  by  my 
foolish  rashness  marred  my  own  fortunes.  Inwardly  I  cursed 
my  imprudence,  and  loaded  myself  with  reproaches.  Then  the 
thought  suggested  itself,  "  Could  my  uncle  be  right — was  I 
indeed  illegitimate  ?" 

"  No,  no,"  I  exclaimed,  unconsciously  aloud;  " it  is  not  true — 
I  feel  that  it  is  false.  A  base  falsehood  got  up  to  rob  me  of  my 
good  name.  The  only  treasure  left  me  by  Providence  when  she- 
deprived  me  of  my  parents.  Robert  Moncton,"  I  cried,  stand- 
ing, erect  before  him,  "  I  will  never  part  with  it.  I  will  main- 
tain my  equality  with  you  and  your  son  to  the  last  moment  of 
my  life  1" 

Overcome  by  excitement  and  agitation,  I  sank  down  into  my 
chair,  my  head  dropped  upon  the  table  and  I  sobbed  couvul- 
gively. 


THE     MONCTONS 


"  Geoffrey,"  said  my  undo,  in  a  low  voice,  in  which  an 
unusual  touch  of  kindness  mingled,  "calm  down  this  furious 
passion.  Poor  lad,  I  pity  and  excuse  your  indignation;  both 
are  natural,  in  your  case." 

"The  pity  of  the  wolf  for  the  lamb,"  muttered  I.     "Such 
,  sympathy  is  worse  than  hate." 

"  Well,  believe  me  the  author  of  all  your  wrongs,  if  it  pleases 
you,  Geoffrey  ;  but  first  listen  to  what  1  have  to  say."  ^ 

I  wa»  too  much  exhausted  b"^  the  violence  of  my  emotions  to 
offer  the  least  opposition,  and  ho  had  it  entirely  his  own  way — 
commencing  his  remarks  with  a  provoking  coolness  which  cut 
me  to  the  heart. 

"  When  you  lost  your  parents,  Geoffrey,  you  were  too  young 
to  have  formed  a  correct  estimate  of  their  characters." 

"  I  have  a  very  indistinct  recollection  of  my  father.  I 
remember  my  mother  well,"  ^ 

"You  may  imagine  that.  Your  father  had  a  fine,  manly 
face,  and  nature  had  endowed  him  with  those  useless  but  bril- 
liant qualities  of  mind,  which  the  world  calls  genius,  and  like 
many  of  the  same  class,  he  acted  more  from  impulse  than  from 
principle. 

"  Your  mother  was  a  beautiful  young  woman,  but  with  little 
descretion,  who  loved  unwisely  and  too  well.  Her  father  saw 
enough  of  my  brother  Edward's  character,  to  awaken  his  sus- 
picions that  his  attentions  to  his  daughter  were  not  of  an 
honorable  nature,  and  he  forbade  him  the  house, 

"  This  impolitic  step  brought  matters  to  a  crisis.  The  young 
people  eloped  together,  and  the  old  man  died  of  a  broken  hoai't. 
Your  mother  went  by  the  name  of  Moncton,  and  was  intro- 
duced to  his  sporting  friends  as  my  brother's  wife.  But  no 
evidence  exists  of  a  marriage  having  taken  place  ;  and  until 
such  evidence  can  be  produced,  the  world  will  look  upon  you  as 
illegitimate. 

"  You  will  soon  be  of  age,  Geoffrey,  and  if  you  are  prepared 


tti0iiiimitmmmimiium 


t:^::^ 


\ » 


THE     MO  >•  C  T  0  N  8  , 


with  these  indispensable  do  aments,  I  will  assist,  to  the  best 
of  ray  professional  abilities,  in  helping;  you  to  establish  '.our 
claims.  It  is  not  in  ray  power  to  destroy  or  invalidate  them. 
Why  then  these  base  suspicions — these  unmerited  reproaches 
— these  hurric'  .  s  of  passion  ?  Why  doubt  my  integrity  at  the 
very  moment  w''.*  1 1  am  most  anxious  to  serve  you  ?"     -  ..ju^,  i,i 

"  Bi  jause  in  no  instance  have  you  ever  proved  yourself  my 
friend,  and  I  cannot  help  doubting  your  sincerity  !"        ■<.  ;  a^.h 

"  A  want  of  candor  is  certainly  not  among  ypur  failings," 
said  Mr.  Moncton,  with  a  hil^h  mv\  of  his  proud  lip.  "  You 
have  studied  the  law  long  enough  to  know  the  impolicy  of  such 
conduct." 

"  I  'udge  not  from  fair  words  but  deeds.  Sir,  the  change  in 
y?  r  behavior  to  me  is  too  sudden  for  me  to  belic»e  it 
geiiUine." 

"  Strange,"  mused  Mr.  Moncton,  "  so  young  and  so  su'spici- 
ous  1"  then  turning  to  me,  he  said,  without  tho  least  appearance 
of  resentment  at  my  violence, 

"  Geoffrey,  I  know  your  fruity  temper,  and  forgive  you  for 
using  such  insulting  language,  The  communication  I  have  just 
made,  was  enough  to  irritate  your  sensitive  nature  and  mortify 
your  pride  ;  but  it  is  not  reasonable  that  your  anger  should  be 
directed  against  me. 

'*  I  considered  it  absolutely  neccbb^iry,  to  apprise  you  of  these 
important  facts,  and  conveyed  the  knowledge  of  them  to  you,  as 
gently  as  I  could,  just  to  show  you,  that  you  must  depend  upou 
your  own  exertions  to  advance  your  position  in  society." 

"  If  your  statement  be  true,  w.iat  have  I  to  do  with  society  ? 
What  position  could  I  obtain  in  u  -yorld  which  already  regards 
me  as  an  outcast  ?" 

"  Not  here,  perhaps.  But  there  are  other  countries,  where 
the  conventional  rules  that  govern  society  in  this,  are  regarded 
with  indifference — America,  for  instance. 

He  fixed  his  keen  eye  upon  me.    An  el  metric  flash  passed  into 


92 


THE     MONCTOiis. 


my  mind.  I  saw  his  drift.  I  recollected  Harrison's  advice  that 
the  only  way  to  obtain  my  rights  and  baffle  my  uncle's  cunning, 
was  non-resistance.  '''  ,r jrieu  ray  plans  in  a  moment,  and  deteiv 
luined  to  foil  his  scho,me:j  by  appearing  to  rountenr:  i-  them, 
until  I  could  arrive  ai  the  truth,  and  fathom  his  d<  Li^iiS — and 
I  answered  him  with  composure. 

"  Perhaps,  I  have  done  you  injustice  sir.  The  distracted 
state  of  my  mind  must  be  my  excuse.  I  will  try  and  submit 
with  patience  to  my  hard  fate."      '     •      •  ■  ■■<"'    ^    ,M  '■^t-\^.i^ 

"  It  is  your  only  wise  course.  Hark  you,  Geoffrey  1  I  am  rich, 
trust  in  me,  and  the  world  shall  never  sneer  at  you  as  a  poor 
relation.  Those  whom  Robert  Moncton  takes  by  the  hand  may 
laugh  at  doubtful  birth  and  want  of  fortune."  :*  .  ^  i  , 
.  The  scoundrel !  how  I  longed  to  knock  him  down,  but  that 
would  have  done  me  no  good,  so  I  mastered  my  indignation  and 

withdrew.   -.    •-;  ;  mU'^vt    '^.■'     .     ^        ■•:..■■■;    .    .       .rr       ,        ,    .:  '    ..— ^   - 


'■*vymiiVP.'<.'S /<■<!['•      -^-.»:.    ■.'!i.':    '.'i 


:4*^: 


* 


OH  AFTER    XII. 


I    FOEFfilT    MY    INDEPENDENCE. 


"Be  ye  therefore  wise  as  serpents,  and  harmless  as  doves,'» 
was  the  advice  of  the  JDivine  Law-giver,  when  he  sent  his  dis- 
ciples forth  on  their  heavenly  mission  to  reform  an  evil  world. 

Religion,  as  I  have  before  stated,  had  formed  no  part  in  my 
education.  I  had  read  the  sacred  volume  with  fear  and  tremb- 
ling, and  derived  no  consolation  from  its  mystic  pages. 

I  had  adopted  the  fatal  idea,  that  I  was  one  of  those  pre-con- 
demned  beings,  for  whom  the  blackness  of  darkness  was  reserved 
for  ever,  and  that  no  effort  on  my  part,  could  avert  the  terrible 
decree. 

This  shocking  and  blasphemous  belief  had  taken  such  deep 


,r5if  •.  . 


TBI     M0NGT0N8. 


08 


juoton,  and  sought  my  own 

"  appear  so  repulsive  as 

:;  )omy  solitude,  or  intrude 


hold  of  my  mind,  that  I  looked  upon  all  religious  exercises  as 
perfectly  useless.  I  could  not  fancy  myself  one  of  the  elect, 
and  so  went  from  that  extreme  to  the  other.  If  I  were  to  be 
saved,  I  should  be  saved.  If  a  vessel  of  wrath,  only  fitted  for 
destruction,  it  was  folly  to  struggle  against  fate,  and  I  never 
suflFered  my  mind  to  dwell  upon  the  subject.  ^  iN,;-».kt,>;jj,i 

i  In  the  multitude  of  sorrows  w'lich  pressed  sorely  on  my  young 
heart,  I  more  than  ever  stood  ^d  of  the  advice  and  consola- 

tion which  the  Christian  religio  ilone  bestow. 

I  left  the  presence  of  Rob- 
chamber.  The  lonely  garret  c 
usual.  No  one  would  disturb 
upon  my  grief.  There  I  had  free  liberty  to  weep — to  vent 
aloud,  if  I  pleased,  the  indignant  feelings  of  my  heart.  My  mind 
was  overwhelmed  with  bitter  and  resentful  thoughts  ;  every  evil 
passion  in  man's  fallen  nature  was  struggling  for  mastery,  and 
the  worst  agony  I  was  called  upon  to  endure,  was  the  hopeless, 
heart-crushing,  downward  tending  madness  of  despau*. 

To  die — to  got  rid  of  self — the  dark  consciousness  of  unmer- 
ited contempt  and  social  degradation,  was  the  temptation  which 
continually  flitted  through  my  excited  brain.  I  have  often  since 
wondered  how  I  resisted  the  strong  impulse  that  lured  me 
onward  to  destruction. 

My  good  angel  prevailed.  By  mere  accident,  my  Bible  lay 
upon  the  iron  chest.  I  eagerly  seized  the  volume,  and  sought 
in  the  first  page  I  should  open,  an  omen  that  should  decide  my 
fate,  and  my  eye  glanced  upon  the  words  already  quoted — "  Be 
ye,  therefore,  wise  as  serpents,  and  harmless  as  doves." 

I  closed  the  book  and  sat  down,  and  tried  to  shape  the  words 
to  suit  my  present  state.  What  better  advice  could  I  follow — 
from  what  higher  authority  could  I  derive  sounder  counsel? 
Did  it  not  suit  completely  my  case  ? 

Harrison  had  disappeared.  I  was  alone  and  friendless  in  the 
honse  of  the  oppressor.    Did  I  follow  the  suggestions  of  my  own 


J.  '1 


»r*- 


IMAGE  EVALUATiON 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


w,./.o 


{./ 


'J*  Jit-,  ^ 


*t     %° 


A 


f/ 


1.0 


I.I 


If:  liM  IIM 

f  ^  IS 

It   fiis    12.0 


1.8 


1.25      1.4 

1.6 

<4 6"     — 

► 

Hiotographic 

Sciences 
Corporation 


23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  NY.  14580 

(716)  872-4503 


94 


THE  M0NCT0N8. 


heart,  T  should  either  destroy  myself,  or  qait  the  protection  of 
Mr.  Moncton's  roof  for  ever. 

"  But  then,"  said  reason,  "  if  you  take  the  first  step,  you  are 
guilty  of  an  unpardonable  sin,  and  by  destroying  yourself,  fur- 
ther the  sinister  views  of  your  uncle.  If  the  second,  you  throw 
away  seven  years  of  hard  labor,  lose  your  indentures,  and  for 
ever  place  a  bar  to  your  future  advancement.  In  a  few  months 
you  will  be  of  age,  and  your  own  master.  Bear  these  evils 
patiently  a  little  longer — wait  and  watch — you  never  can  regain 
your  lost  name  and  inheritance  by  throwing  yourself  friendless 
upon  the  world." 

Determined  to  adopt,  and  strictly  to  adhere  to  this  line  of 
conduct,  and  leave  the  rest  to  Providence,  I  washed  the  traces 
of  tears  from  my  face,  and  returned  to  the  private  office.    ^^ 

Here  I  found  Mr<  Moncton  engaged  with  papers  of  conse- 
quence.  • 

'^'  He  held  out  his  hand  as  I  took  my  seat  at  the  desk.  "  Are 
we  friends,  Geofifrey  ?"  ^""" 
'^  "  That  depends  upon  circumstances." 
"  . "How  hard  it  is  for  you  to  give  a  gracious  answer.  It  is 
your  own  fault  that  we  ever  were  otherwise."    2 

"  I  will  try  and  think  you  my  friend  for  the  time  to  come." 

•He  seemed  more  amused  than  surprised  at  this  concession, 
and  for  some  time  we  both  wrote  on  in  silence. 

A  tap  at  the  door,  and  one  of  the  clerks  handed  in  a  letter. 

Mr.  Moncton  examined  the  post-mark  and  eagerly  opened  it 
While  reading,  his  countenance  underwent  one  of  those 
remarkable  changes  I  had  on  several  occasions  witnessed  of  late, 
and  which  seemed  so  foreign  to  his  nature. 

Suddenly,  crushing  the  letter  tightly  in  his  hand,  he  flung  it 
from  him  to  the  floor,  and  spurned  it  with  his  foot,  exclaiming 
as  he  did  so,  with  a  fiend-like  curl  of  the  lips :  "  So  would  I 
serve  the  writer  were  he  here  1"  Then  turning  to  me,  and 
speaking  in  a  low,  confidential  tone,  he  said  :  m 


■-^^-;. 


/  > 


T" 


y  i- 


THE    UONCTONS. 


95 


*'  The  writer  of  that  letter  is  unconscionsly  making  your  for- 
tane,  Geoffrey.  This  soa  of  mine  has  acted  in  a  base,  ungrate- 
ful manner  to  me — in  a  manner  which  I  can  never  forget  or 
forgive.  If  you  conduct  yourself  prudently,  you  may  become 
dearer  to  me  than  this  wicked  young  man." 

"I  should  be  sorry  to  rise  on  my  cousin's  ruin.  I  would 
rather  gain  your  respect  on  any  other  terms." 

This  remark  made  him  wince. 

"  Foolish  boy  I  How  blind  you  are  to  your  own  interest. 
You  belong  to  a  family  famous  for  playing  the  fool.  It  runs  in 
the  blood  of  the  Monctons."     -  "■      -•    -  ^-     -  -•    > 

"  You  surely  are  an  exception,  sir,"  and  I  tried  in  vain  to 
suppress  a  sarcastic  smile.  •       ;     t 

He  took  no  notice  of  this  speech,  but,  starting  from  his  seat, 
paced  the  room  for  some  minutes,  as  if  in  deep  communion  with 
himself. 

"  Geoffrey,"  he  said  at  last,  "  from  this  day  I  adopt  you 
as  my  son.  I  exempt  you  from  the  common  drudgeries  of  the 
office,  and  will  engage  masters  to  instruct  you  in  the  fashion- 
able accomplishments  which  are  deemed  necessary  to  complete 
the  education  of  a  gentleman."  ,..    . 

I  was  mute  with  astonishment. 

"  Trifling  as  these  things  may  appear  to  the  man  of  science 
and  the  candidate  for  literary  honors,  they  are  not  without  their 
use  to  the  professional  student.  The  world  judges  so  much  by 
externals,  that  nothing  is  to  be  despised  that  helps  to  flatter  its 
prejudices,  and  ensure  popularity. 

"  You  are  not  too  old  to  learn  dancing,  fencing  and  riding. 
I  should  like  you  to  excel  in  athletic  sports  and  exercises." 

"  You  are  making  game  of  me,  uncle ;"  for  I  could  not 
believe  him  in  earnest.  '         -^^a 

"  By  the  living  God  1  Geoffrey,  I  mean  what  I  say." 

I  stood  before  him,  gazing  into  his  face  like  one  in  a  dream. 
There  was  a  downright  earnestness  in  his  face  which  could  not 


'■^fc- 


*V..  ■...■,  <■.-;■.. 


,%: 


96 


THE    MONOTONS. 


be  mistaken.  He  was  no  longer  acting  a  part,  but  really 
meant  what  he  said.  Nor  could  I  doubt  but  that  letter  had 
wrought  this  sudden  change  in  my  favor.  Where,  now,  was  all 
my  high-souled  resolutions;  human  nature  prevailed,  and  I 
yielded  to  the  temptation.  There  sat  Robert  Moncton,  gazing 
complacently  upon  me,  from  beneath  those  stern,  dark  brows, 
his  glittering  eyes  no  longer  freezmg  me  with  their  icy  shine, 
b  jt  regarding  me  with  a  calm,  approving  smile.  No  longer  the 
evil  genius  of  my  childhood,  but  a  munificent  spirit  intent  to  do 
me  good. 

Ah,  I  was  young — very  young,  and  the  world,  in  my  narrow 
circle,  had  dealt  hardly  with  me.  I  longed  for  freedom,  for 
emancipation  from  constant  toil.  This  must  plead  an  excuse 
for  my  criminal  weakness. 

Years  of  painful  experience,  in  the  ways  and  wiles  of  men, 
had  not  as  yet  perfected  the  painful  lesson  taught  me  in  after 
years.  Young,  ardent,  and  willing  to  believe  the  best  I  could 
of  my  species,  I  began  to  think  that  I  alone  had  been  to 
blame  ;  that  I  had  wronged  my  uncle,  and  thrust  upon  his 
shoulders  the  burden  of  injuries  which  I  had  received  from  his 
son. 

The  evil  influence  of  that  son  had  been  removed,  and  he  was 
now  willing  to  be  my  friend ;  and  I  determined  to  bury  the 
past  in  oblivion,  and  to  believe  him  really  and  truly  so. 

I  shook  him  warmly  by  the  hand,  and  entreated  his  forgive- 
ness for  the  hard  thoughts  I  had  entertained,  and  thanked  him 
sincerely  for  his  offers  of  service. 

The  light  faded  from  his  eye.  He  looked  gloomily,  almost 
sadly  into  my  face,  glowing,  as  it  must  have  been,  with  generous 
emotions,  marvelling,  doubtlessly,  at  my  credulity. 

Mr.  Moncton,  up  to  this  period,  had  resided  in  the  house 
which  contained  his  office;  the  basement  having  been  appro- 
priated entirely  for  that  purpose,  while  the  family  occupied  the 
floors  above.    My  uncle  seldom  received  visitors,  excepting  at 


.r 


THE     UONCTONS 


9^ 


^Jl: 


AoM^^s  wKn  Theophllus  returned  from  cdilege.*  To  theai 
parties,  I,,  as  a  matter  of  course,  had  never  been  admitted,    Idf* 
uncle's  evenings  were  spent  abroad,  but  I  was  unacquainted 
with  his  habits,  and  totally  ignorant  of  his  haunts. 

Judge  then,  of  my  surprise  and  satisfaction  when  informed  by 
Mr.  Moncton,  that  he  had  purchased  a  handsome  house  in  Gros-^ 
venor  street,  and  that  we  were  to  remove  thither.  The  of&cQ 
was  still  to  be  retained  in  Hatton  Garden,  but  my  hours  of  at- 
tendance were  not  to  commence  before  ten  in  the  morning  ;  and 
were  to  terminate  at  four  in  the  afternoon. 

I  had  lived  the  larger  portion  of  my  life  in  great,  smoky  Lou* 
don,  and  had  never  viHited  the  west  end  of  the  town.  The 
change  in  my  prospects  was  truly  delightful.  I  was  transported 
as  if  by  magic  from  my  low,  dingy,  ill-lighted,  ill-ventilated 
garret,  to  a  well-appointed  room  on  the  second  story  of  an 
elegantly  furnished  house  in  an  airy,  fashionable  part  of  the 
town  ;  the  apartment  provided  for  my  especial  benefit,  containing 
all  the  luxuries  and  comforts  which  modern  refinement  has  ren- 
dered indispensable. 

A  small,  but  well-selected  library  crowned  the  whole.  ^ 

I  did  little  else  the  first  day  my  uncle  introduced  me  to  this 
charming  room,  but  walk  to  and  fro  from  the  book-case  to  the 
windows.  Now  glancing  at  the  pages  of  some  long  coveted 
treasure  ;  now  watching  with  intense  interetit  the  throng  of  car- 
riages passing  and  repassing  ;  hoping  to  catch  a  glance  of  the 
fair  face,  that  had  made  such  an  impression  gn  my  youthful 
fancy. 

A  note  from  Mr.  Moncton,  kindly  worded  for  him,  conveyed 
to  me  the  pleasing  iutelligen'ce  that  the  handsome  pressfuU  of^ 
fine  linen,  and  fetshionably  cut  clothes,  was  meant  for  my  use  f 
to  which  he  had  generously  added,  a  beautiful  dressing-case,  gold 
watch  arid  chain.  ^' 

I  should  have  been  perfectly  happy,  had  it  not  been  for  # 
vague,  unpleasant  sensation — a  certain  swelling  of  the  hearty' 


a^^ 

^P 


THE     MONGTONS. 


> 


which  silently  seemed  to  reproach  me  for  accepting  all  these 
favors  from  a  person  whom  I  neither  loved  nor  respected,  .'v  '* 

Conscience  whispered  that  it  was  far  better  to  remain  poor 
and  independent,  than  compromise  my  integrity.    ;    ,,  i.f  ; j      - 

Oh,  that  I  had  given  more  heed  to  that  voice  of  the  soul  I 
That  still,  small  voice,  that  never  lies — that  voice  that  no  one 
can  drown,  without  remorse  and  self-condemnation,      -ir  =^  *- 

Tiine  bronght  with  it  the  punishment  I  deserved,  convincing 
me  then,  and  for  ever,  that  no  one  can  act  against  his  own  con- 
viction of  right,  without  incurring  the  penalty  due  to  his  moral 
defalcation.  ■•    '  ^  jmu'  i;  i> 

I  dined  alone  with  Mr.  Moncton.     f -» t  •».«<  <r  .n.^i  *crir" 

He  asked  me  if  I  was  pleased  with  the  apartments  he  had 
selected  for  my  use.  I  was  warm  in  my  thanks,  and  he  appeared 
satisfied.  f ■■-<i'>i*i^  ^^i-Mt-.^  > i'-iff*^  yjrT-    ».teti*- -ai  #05-s;«j|4**'.i 

After  the  cloth  was  drawn,  he  filled  a  bumper  of  wine,  and 
pushed  the  bottle  over  to  me.    i'-joti-.^'^xxr^  fts'*'  4  *<*.  i-*^-^i  rvMs?* 

"  Here's  to  your  rising  to  the  head  of  the  profession,  Geoff- 
rey.    Fill  your  glass,  my  boy."  ■ '  '-^'^  ^^'».|i^ifr. 

I  drank  part  of  the  wine,  and  set  the  glass  down  on  the  table. 
It  was  fine  old  Madeira.  I  had  not  been  used  to  drink  anything 
stronger  than  tea  and  coffee,  and  I  found  it  mounting  to  my 
head.         '^'^■""    "£■"■"■«■  '""'"  ""  — '■■■"  '■'"  --"r^"  ■  -   ■".       „,,.,.,..._ 

"  I  will  not  allow  that,  Geoffrey — you  must  honor  my  toast.*' 
"I  have  done  so,  uncle,  as  far  as  I  am  able.    I  have  had 
enough  wine."  •  .    f 

" Nonsense,  boy  1    Don't  you  like  it  ?"     ''':*'■  '-;'f  ''^'  ^'^ 
"  I  hardly  know.     It  makes  me  feel  giddy  and  queer."      '  *^ 
"  Ha  I  ha  1  that's  good" — chuckling,  and  rubbing  his  hands. 
"  If  I  take  more  just  now,  I  shall  certainly  Tse  tipsy."  , 

"  What  then  ?"     ^  ^     "  /:     '   ;\'^     ;  ^  ^^J\     ;    f'^f^\^ 
"  It  would  be  disgraceful.    In  your  presence,  too.^''^  ■.>-"^'^ 
"What — were  you  never  drunk  ?"  „  "  *  ," 

IS  ever,  m  my  life."  ,  ;         -  - 


stS* 


•     :,V 


.  ,  r.s 


:..;;-/ 


THK     MONOTONS 


(i-i(t.>T|11    0}    i**virt't*?  'jUr-}**  t<'»isiw 


,  ,..i 


. .,    T 


.1, 


■t   ;■' 


'    "  How  old  are  you  r  '^ 

"Twenty." 

"  "And  never  intoxicated — well,  that's  a  good  joke.  Few 
young  men  of  your  age  could  say  that.  Would  you  not  likia  to 
increase  your  knowledge,  and  be  as  wise  as  others  V 

I  shook  my  head.  '    ■*'     *"' 

"  Ridiculous  prudery.  Come,  fill  your  glass,  and  I  will  tell 
you  a  droll  anecdote  of  that  pretty  girl  you  fell  in  lore  with  the 
other  day." 

The  glass  was  instantly  replenished,  and  I  was  wide  awake  in 
a  moment.  ^'*' 

**  That  young  lady  had  a  very  pretty  cousin — a  West  Indian 
— a  high-spirited,  dashing  girl,  who  had  lost  her  parents,  and 
was  on  a  visit  in  England  to  her  aunt — with  whom  the  fair 
Catherine  resides.  The  girls,  among  other  things,  were  very 
curious  to  know  how  men  felt  when  they  were  drunk.  *  It 
surely  must  be  a  very  agreeable  sensation,'  said  my  little  friend 
Kate,  '  or  they  would  not  so  often  give  way  to  it."*      ri-ii  f 

" '  Suppose  we  try  ?' "  said  Miss  Madcap.  /.* « *<  f^  t'ri      t«. 

"  '  Dear  me,  what  would  aunt  think  of  us  ?' "        .*.  j^n^ii^  |  ^ 

•' '  We  won't  let  her  know  a  word  about  it.  She  goes  out  to- 
morrow, to  spend  a  few  days  in  the  country.  I  will  smuggle 
into  our  room  a  couple  of  bottles  of  champ9,gne — we'll  lock  the 
door,  feign  indisposition,  and  get  glorious.'"  *..*?? 

"  And  did  they  do  it  ?" 

"  To  be  sure  they  did.  *  We  drank  one  botljje  between  us,» 
said  my  little  friend,  *  and  I  never  was  so  ill  in  my  life.  I  was 
only  astonished  after  we  got  sober,  how  any  one  could  try  the 
experiment  a  second  time.'  Had  they  tried  it  a  second  time, 
GeoflFrey,  all  the  difficulty  would  have  been  removed." 

He  drank  off  several  glasses  in  succession,  and  for  fear  I 
should  be'  thought  deficient  in  spirit ;  I  followed  his  example. 
But  the  Rubicon  once  crossed,  to  my  surprise,  I  found  that  the 
wine  had  no  effect  upon  my  senses  ;  only  serving  to  elevate  my 
spirits  a  little,  and  make  me  more  sociable  and  communicative. 


'-T,-Ti'i-""i-«--V?r,  '_-^^f^  ■--■  -f 


100 


'rHE     MONCTONS. 


My  uncle's  stern  face  began  to  relax  from  its  usual  cold 
severity,  and  I  found  that  when  warmed  with  wine,  he  could  bo 
a  most  intelligent  and  agreeable  companion.  After  conversing 
for  some  time  on  indifferent  subjects,  he  said — 

"  You  think  you  remember  your  parents.  I  have  their  por- 
traits. Perhaps  you  would  like  to  keep  them  in  your  own 
possession." 

"  No  present  you  could  make  me,  would  be  so  valuable,"  I 
cried. 

"No  heroics,"  he  said,  going  to  a  beautiful  inlaid  cabinet. 
"I  'detest  sentimental  people.  They  are  the  greatest  humbugs 
in  the  world."    '  •   ' 

Beturning  to  the  table,  he  placed  two  large  miniature  cases  in 
my  hand,  I  eagerly  seized  them.      '      -    -^v"^   '  '•■  v  '-^  m^^.*^ 

"  Don't  look  at  them  now,"  he  cried,  "  or  we  shall  have  a 
scene — wait  until  you  are  alone.  I  found  them  among  my 
brother's  papers,  and  had  forgotten  all  about  them,  until  I 
chanced  to  stumble  over  them  in  the  bustle  of  removing." 

I  hid  away  the  precious  relics  in  my  bosom,  and  was  about  to 
quit  the  room.  *       ...     ™   ..»*.,.. 

"Sit  down,  Gcoflfrey,"  he  said,  with  a  grim  smile,  "you  are 
too  sober  to  go  to  bed  yet."  ^  ' '"  ^    -  '  '^^ 

I  filled  the  glass  mechanically,  but  it  remained  untasted  before 
me.  .  ^    :;    ''^"'"'' 

"  By  the  by,"  continued  my  uncle,  in  a  careless  tone,  which 
his  eagle  glance  contradicted,  "  what  has  become  of  you  friend 
Harrison  ?" 

"  I  wish  I  knew.    His  absence  is  a  great  loss  to  me."     .   '^ 

"  Who  and  what  is  this  Harrison.  You  were  his  confidant, 
and,  doubtless,  know  ?" 

"  Of  his  private  history,  nothing."  ^^ '  '^"^^  ':^ i^^f^n.  ^!  m^ 

My  uncle's  large  dark  eyes,  were  looking  into  my  soul ;  I  ifelt 
that  he  doubted  by  word.  "  He  has,  I  believe,  been  unfortunate 
and  is  reduced  in  his  circumstances.  His  moral  character,  / 
know  to  be  excellent." 


TU£     MONCTONS. 


101 


"  And  doubtlesa  your  are  a  capital  judge,"  said  Mr.  Moucton. 
"Young  men  all  imagine  themselves  as  w<so  as  Daniel  or 
Socrates.  I  think,  hosrever,  friend  Geoffrey,  that  this  man 
deceived  you." 

"  Impossible.  Harrison  is  incapable  uf  committing  a  mean  or 
dishonorable  action.  Nor  does  he  attempt  to  spare  himself  from 
blame  ;  but  frankly  confesses,  that  to  his  own  imprudence,  he  is 
mainly  indebted  for  his  misfortunes."  ''       yj 

"  Imprudence  is  a  respectable  term  for  intemperance,  dissipa- 
tion, and  vice  of  every  kind,"  sneered  my  uncle.  "Your  moral 
young  gentleman  might  preach  against  sins  which  had  caused  his 
own  ruin.  Believe  me,  Geoffrey,  the  crimes  and  passions  of 
most  men  are  alike,  with  only  this  difference,  that  some  have 
greater  art  of  concealing  them."  .     .  .    i   .  !.  ^ 

"  That  would  make  virtue  a  mere  name,"  said  I,  indignantly. 
"  I  cannot  believe  thai  ideal,  which  I  have  been  used  to  worship 
as  a,  reality."     i  .     .         .        i    .     . 

"All  bosh.  At  your  age,  men  cling  to  the  ideal,  and  reso- 
lutely close  their  eyes  to  the  true  and  rational.  I  was  guilty  of 
the  same  weakness  once."  ,  i,  ».,i 

"You,  uncle  !"         ,    -  ,.  .  '..!i!^^. 

"  Ay,  you  are  astonished.  But  the  time  came,  and  too  soon, 
when  I  learned  to  wonder  at  my  own  credulity.  I  was  in  love 
once.  You  smile.  Yes,  with  that  old  witch,  ns  you  call  her 
now.  She  was  as  beautiful  as  an  angel  then.  She  is  an  incar- 
nate devil  now  I  Love  has  turned  to  hate — admiration  to 
execration — and  I  curse  myself  for  ever  having  thought  her 
wise  or  good."      .^  ,^    .  ..  ^   ,  .^    5  . 

He  flung  himself  into  a  chair  and  groaned  like  one  in  acute 
pain  ;  and  I,  thinking  he  wished  to  be  alone,  slipped  away  be- 
fore he  raised  his  head  from  between  his  clasped  hands. 

"  What  could  he  mean  by  asking  me  so  many  questions  ?"  I 
cried,  as  I  threw  myself  into  an  easy  chair  in  my  luxurious 
apartment.     "  Were  they  instigated  by  the  wine  he  had  drank, 


*,■> 


n^--i\'.< 


loa 


THE    UOMCTONd. 


or  suggested  by  idle  curiosity — or  were  my  answers  intended 
to  answer  some  sinister  purpose?  God  knows.  He  is  a 
strange  inexplicable  man,  whose  words  and  actions  the  most 
profound  lawyer  could  scarcely  fathom.  I  think  he  endeavored 
to  make  me  intoxicated  in  the  hope  of  extracting  some  informa- 
tion regarding  poor  George.  If  so,  he  has  missed  his  mark.''  » 
f»  I  drew  from  my  bosom  the  portraits  he  had  given  me,  per* 
haps  as  a  bait  to  win  my  confidence  ;  but  I  was  thankful  to 
him  for  the  inestimable  gift,  whatever  the  motives  were  which 
led  to  its  bestowal;    .-  ->■ 

>-  The  first  case  contained  the  miniature  of  my  father.  The 
gay,  careless,  happy  countenance,  full  of  spirii,  and  intelligence^ 
seemed  to  smile  upon  his  unfortunate  son. 

I  raised  my  eyes  to  the  mirror — the  same  features  met  my 
glance  ;  but  ah,  how  difi'erent  the  expression  of  the  two  faces. 
Mine  was  saddened  and  paled  by  early  care,  by  close  confine- 
ment to  a  dark  unhealthy  office  ;  at  twenty,  I  was  but  a  faded 
likeness  of  my  father. 

I  sighed  as  I  pressed  the  portrait  to  my  heart.  In  the  mark- 
ed difference  between  us  I  read  distinctly  the  history  of  two 
lives. 

But  how  shall  I  describe  my  feelings  whilst  gazing  on  the 
picture  of  my  mother.  The  fast  falling  tears  for  a  long  while 
hid  the  fondly  remembered  features  from  my  sight — but  they 
still  floated  before  the  eyes  of  my  soul  in  all  their  original  love- 
liness. 

Yes — there  was  the  sweet  calm  face — the  large  soft  confiding 
blue  eyes — the  small  rosy  mouth  with  its  gentle  winning  smile, 
and  the  modest  truthful  expression  of  the  combined  features 
which  gave  such  a  charm  to  the  whole. 

Oh,  my  mother — my  dear,  lost,  angel  mother — how  that  pic- 
ture recalled  the  far-off  happy  days  of  childhood,  wlyBn  I  sat 
upon  your  knees,  and  saw  my  own  joyous  face  reflected  in  those 
dov&-like  eyes  ;  ttrhen,  ending  some  nursery  rhyme  with  a  kiss, 


*\ 


,.fcj&ir?£.r^=;--:^-   .. 


1 


TUB    UONOTOKS. 


103 


yoQ  bowed  *yoar  velvet  cheek  upon  my  clastering  curlgf  ao^ 
bade  God  blesa  and  keep  your  darling  boy.        ;;     ^    : 

Oh  my  mother  I — would  that  I  could  become  a  child  again, 
or  that  1  could  go  to  you,  though  you  cannot  return  to  me. 

I  leant  my  head  upon  the  table  and  wept.  Those  tears  pro- 
duced a  salutary  effect  upon  my  mind,  and  slipping  down  upon 
my  knees,  I  poured  out  the  feelings  of  my  oppressed  heart  in 
prayer,  and  after  awhile  rose  from  the  ground  in  a  more  com- 
posed state  of  mind.  The  picture  still  lay  there  smiling  upon 
me.  "  Is  it  of  you,  dearest  mother,"  I  said,  "  that  bad  men  dare 
whisper  hard  things  ?  Who  could  look  Q>t  that  pure  lovely  face 
and  believe  aught  against  your  honor  ?  I  could  despise  my 
father,  though  his  only  son,  could  I  for  an  instant  imagine  him 
capable  of  taking  advantage  of  such  youth  and  innocence.  But 
no — it  is  a  foul  slander  invented  by  a  villain  to  answer  some 
base  purpose — and  may  I  perish,  when  I  believe  it  true  1"  ♦; 

I  locked  the  portraits  carefully  in  my  desk,  and  retired  to 
bed.  The  wine  I  had  drank  and  the  unusual  excitement  of  my 
feelings  for  a  long  time  prevented  sleep,  and  it  was  the  dawn  of 
day  before  I  sank  to  rest,     tsu  i^r    .  i    v  i;i,^-,  at   ijvv>;j^Ui^  iif) 

l>l\)    tu,*    Jiji'\'.:,'4   .»:^iii/?    i'^^iUi'-tjf    Vi.i    ;<u. !  •-./)■    i    I'u^i' .:    fiOU  jC 


•  t 

r-iit,  MiiJ  -   i.h.fi 
-■».'ui   •.3i»t,i^!j,.l{/    i. 


-♦►► 


Viii 


4  J> 


nil, 


CHAPTER    XIII. 


':^inUi       j^  ^jgj^  pjjQjj  ^gg  QUEAT  MAN   OP  THE   FAMILY. 


-■it- 


»5 j-^  ^-.t j.^JA-w  ** 


':^ 


ij.ui    ivMiJi>.5  ..!ni.\'.!6;.i''_^^  .'Jk'i*' 


From  that  day,  I  became  Mr.  Moncton^s  factotum,  his  confi- 
dential clerk,  and  principal  agent.  In  all  matters  that  required 
prompt  and  skillful  management  he  invariably  employed  me. 

If  he  did  not  regard  me  with  affection — for  that  was  foreign 
to  his  nature — he  respected  my  abilities,  and  placed  the  greatest 
reliance  on  my  principles.    I  attended  him  in  most  of  his  profes- 


104 


THE     UONCTONS. 


,-4 


siouul  journeys,  ond  was  present  in  every  court  in  vA\k\i  lie  hud 
ftn  important  case.  He  was  an  admirable  speaker,  and  liis  cool, 
decided  manner  had  great  weight  with  both  judge  and  jury.  1 
no  sooner  appeared  with  him  in  public  than  I  became  a  person 
of  considerable  consequence  among  his  friends  and  acquaintances, 
and  invitations  flowed  in  upon  me  from  ull  quarters.  One  thing 
appeared  very  certain,  that  the  same  persons  who  had  despised 
the  shabbily-dressed  lawyer's  clerk,  no  longer  regarded  me  with 
cold  eyes  as  a  poor  relation,  but  were  among  the  first  to  over- 
whelm me  with  civilities  ;  and,  for  a  while,  I  was  intoxicated 
witH'the  adulation  I  received  from  the  world  and  its  smooth- 

i  tongued  votaries. 

,?     Three  months  glided  rapidly  away,  and  every  day  added  to 

j  my  self-importance,  and  brought  with  it  fresh  opportunities  of 

i  enlarging  the  circle  of  my  friends,  and  of  acquiring  a  competent 
knowledge  of  the  conventional  rules  of  society.  Though  natu- 
rally fond  of  company,  I  hated  dissipation,  and  those  low  vices 
which  young   men   of  common   minds  generally   designate   as 

,  pleasure,  in  the  pursuit  of  which  they  too  often  degrade  their 
mental  and  physical  powers.     Mr.  Moncton  laughed  at  what  he 

i>  termed  my  affectation  of  moral  integrity,  and  tried  by  every  art 
to  seduce  me  to  join  in  amusements,  and  visit  scenes,  from  which 
my  mind  revolted  ;  and  his  own  example  served  to  strengthen  my 
disgust.  My  resistance  to  such  temptations  I  do  not  ascribe  to 
any  inherent  virtue  ia  me  ;  but  I  have  often  observed  in  my 
subsequent  journey  through  life,  that  young  men,  whose  know- 
ledge of  the  world  has  chiefly  been  confined  to  books,  and  who 

'  have  never  mingled  much  with  persons  of  their  own  age,  are 
guarded  from  low  vices  by  the  romantic  and  beautiful  ideal  of 
life,  which  they  formed  in  solitude.  The  coarse-  reality  is  so 
shocking  and  degrading,  so  repugnant  to  taste  and  good  feeling, 
and  all  their  pre-conceived  notions  upon  the  subject,  that  they 
cannot  indulge  in  it  without  remorse  and  a  painful  sense  of 
■  ■  degradation.    This  was  so  completely  my  case,  that  I  often  fled 


HWai 


TUE     MONCTONS. 


105 


to  solitudS  as  a  refu^^o  from  pleasures,  so-called,  that  I  could 
not  enjoy,  and  scenes  in  wliich  I  felt  shuuio  to  bo  an  actor. 
Perhaps  I  was  mulnly  indebted  to  the  passion  I  had  coticelved 
for  the  beautiful  Catherine,  which  acted  as  a  secret  talisman  in 
securing  me  from  tho  contamiiiattng  influences  to  which,  in  my 
new  position,  I  was  often  exposed.  In  the  hope  of  meeting 
again  the  fair  creature  whose  image  filled  my  soul,  I  had  fre- 
quented theatres,  operas,  and  public  balls,  but  to  no  purpose  ; 
on  this  head  I  was  still  doomed  to  suffer  the  most  provokiug 
disappointment. 

One  evening  I  returned  late  from  the  office  in  Hatton  Oar- 
den  ;  my  uncle  was  from  home,  and  a  great  press  of  business 
had  detained  me  beyond  the  usual  dinner  hour,  which  was  at 
six.  The  porter  had  scarcely  admitted  me  into  tho  hall,  when 
one  of  the  footmen,  with  whom  I  was  a  great  favorite,  addressed 
me  with  an  air  of  mystery  which  I  thought  highly  amusing.  He 
seemed  so  anxious  to  impress  me  with  the  importance  of  the 
news  he  had  to  communicate. 

"  Mr.  Geoffrey,  Sir  Alexander  Moncton,  my  master's  cousin, 
sir,  is  in  the  dining-room,  waiting  to  see  you  ;  and  the  dinner,  sir, 
is  waiting,  too.  I  told  him,  sir,  that  we  expected  Mr.  Moncton 
home  this  evening,  and  he  bade  his  valet  bring  up  his  portman- 
teau from  the  hotel,  and  said  that  he  would  wait  here  till  ueoster 
returned."  ,  •  ■         **         .....i. 

•  "Thank  you,  Saunders,  for  your  information,"  I  cried,  hurry- 
ing off  to  my  chamber  to  dress  for  dinner.  -  .  »•  ..  .  >  .  —  '  .. 
■  I  felt  greatly  excited  at  the  prospect  of  the  approaching 
interview  with  the  great  man  of  the  family,  who  might  prove  a 
powerful  friend  to  his  friendless  relative,  j  y  ,^t  rv,, .,'t  j,  ^w,  >, 
^  My  uncle  was  from  home,  which  would  afford  me  an  oppor- 
tunity of  speaking  for  myself.  I  was  anxious  to  make  a  favor- 
able impression  on  Sir  Alexander,  and  took  an  unusual  degree  of 
pains  with  my  toilet,  but  the  more  trouble  I  gave  myself,  the 
worse  I  succeeded.    One  suit,  which  was  my  very  best,  I  fancied 

'    5* 


106 


THE     MONCTONS, 


too  fine,  and  tliat  it  made  me  look  vulgar,  another  was  unbecom- 
ing. In  short,  no  bride  on  her  wedding  morning,  ever  felt  more 
diffident  of  the  appearance  she  would  make,  than  I  did  on  this 
important  occasion — which,  hope  whispered,  was  to  prove  the 
great  epoch  in  my  life.  ,i, ;,!,.•.     (•.!!-•!•«  i-'-/  ^nuiAr.uih' 

The  extravagance  of  youthful  hope,  is  only  equalled  by  youth- 
ful vanity  ;  and  whilst  standing  before  the  polished  mirror,  con- 
templating my  own  person  with  the  desire  to  appear  to  the  best 
advantage,  I  forgot  the  stigma  attached  to  my  birth,  my  depen- 
dent situation,  and  the  very  proud  man  in  whose  presence  I 
was  about  to  appear. 

After  pondering  over  for  a  few  minutes,  the  manner  in  which 
I  should  address  him,  a  sudden  sense  of  the  absurdity  of  my 
conduct  struck  me  so  forcibly,  that  my  day-dreams  vanished  in 
a  hearty  fit  of  laughter. 

"  Hang  it  1"  I  exclaimed,  "  what  a  ridiculous  puppy  I  am 
going  to  make  of  myself,  .vith  all  this  aflfectatioa  and  nonsense. 
Nature  is  the  best  guide  in  works  of  art,  why  should  not  our 
conversation  and  manners  be  governed  by  the  same  unerring 
rule  ?  Simplicity  and  truth  possess  a  charm,  that  never  can 
belong  to  studied  airs  and  grimaces.  It  is  better  to  appear  as 
I  am,  with  all  my  imperfections,  than  affect  to  be  what  I  am 
not,  even  if  by  so  doing,  I  could  ensure  the  good  opinion  of  thijs 
wealthy  titled  relation." 

With  these  wise  reflections,  I  regained  my  composure,  and 
joined  Sir  Alexander  in  the  drawing-room — just  as  the  footman 
announced  that  dinner  was  on  the  table. 

Sir  Alexander  received  me,  and  my  apologies  for  detention  in 
the  office,  with  a  mighty  good  grace,  shook  me  warmly  by  the 
hand,  and  accompanied  me  into  the  dining-room,  with  the  air 
of  a  man  who  was  determined  not  to  be  cheated  out  of  his  din- 
ner, and  anxious  to  make  up  for  lost  time.  "»r 

I  did  the  honors  as  well  as  I  could ;  but  not  without  com- 
mitting sundry  awkward  blunders  ;  greatly  to  the  horror  of 


THE     HOMCTOKS. 


lot 


Saunders,  who  with  toe  and  elbow,  gave  mo  varions  silent  hints 
upon  the  snbject,  as  he  glided  noiselessly  to  and  fro.  This 
only  increased  my  confusion,  but  fortunately,  my  worthy  relative 
was  too  much  engrossed  with  kis  dinner,  to  notice  the  trifling 
omissions,  which  poor  Saunders  considered  of  such  immense 
importance.  -*<    it-  i    "        • .  ^     ■  •   •    -1   •         .«'  •'^rs*   -m* 

I  was  greatly  relieved  when  the  cloth  was  removed  ;  and  the 
wine  and  glasses  were  placed  upon  the  table,  and  Sir  Alexander 
and  I  were  left  alone  to  improve  our  acquaintance.    *  '   ^  •        "  ' 

He  commenced  the  conversation  by  introducing  the  very  sub- 
ject uppermost  in  my  mind.  -  «* 

"  Did  I  mistake  you,  young  gentleman,  or  did  you  tell  me, 
that  you  were  a  son  of  the  late  Edward  Moncton  ?" 

"  His  only  son,"  •  •  •. 

"  I  was  not  aware  of  his  marriage — stili  less  that  he  left  a 
son.  It  is  strange,  that  I  should  have  been  kept  in  ignorance 
of  this  important  fact."  >    i '  i    > 

This  was  said  half  musingly.     He  then  turned  to  me  with  a  ' 
lively  air.  , 

"  Your  father,  young  gentleman,  deeply  offended  me.  It  was 
a  foolish  affair.  But  it  effectually  severed  the  friendship  of  years. 
We  repent  of  these  things  when  it  is  too  late.  Had  he  been  less 
violent,  and  less  obstinate,  a  reconciliation  might  have  been 
brought  about.  As  it  was — iuterested  parties  did  their  best  to 
widen  the  breach. 

"  Edward  and  I  were  school-fellows ;  and  though  little  har- 
mony existed  betv/een  the  elder  branches  of  the  family,  we  loved 
like  brothers.  He  was  a  handsome,  generous,  high-spirited  fel- 
low, but  rash  and  extravagant.  While  at  school  he  was  always 
in  debt  and  difficulty,  to  the  great  annoyance  of  his  money-loving 
father,  who  looked  upon  me,  as  the  aider  and  abettor  in  all  his 
scrapes.  We  continued  firm  friends  until  the  night  before  he 
left  college,  when  the  quarrel,  which  I  do  not  mean  to  particular- 
ize, took  place — from  which  period,  we  never  met,  and  all  cor- 


108 


THE     MONCTONS. 


respondence  ceased  between  us.  I  heard,  that  in  after  years, 
he  made  a  love  connexion  ;  but  I  never  learned  the  particulars 
from  any  one  but  your  wncle  Robert ;  and  he  did  not  inform  me, 
that  Edward  had  left  a  son — nor  can  I  comprehend  his  motive 
for  concealing  the  fact."        '  '     =''    "       '  '   f   "■ "     '*'^  '-'*'' 

Sir  Alexander  paused  and  looked  earnestly  in  my  face.  I  felt 
the  blood  rush  to  my  temples.  '  ■■.■<■-■      ^     jr  • 

"  I  do  not  doubt  your  veracity,  young  sir*  You  are  too  like 
the  man  I  loved  so  long  and  well,  for  me  to  question  your  origin. 
But  are  you  certain  that  you  are  Edward  Moncton's  legitimate 
son?"     ■     ■-  ■:■  '  ■'•■■  ^  ■-  .  ■■•  -.    ■t;-^ 

"  I  feel  no  doubt  upon  the  subject ;  my  heart  tells  me  that  I 
am  his  lawful  representative  ;  and  I  trust  that  heaven  will  one 
day  enable  me  to  substantiate  my  claims."  This  was  said  with 
a  vehemence  that  brought  the  tears  into  my  eyes. 

"  Docs  Robert  Moncton  admit  them  ?"  ' '      '  "    '  - 

"No."  '  '       •>  ^•■'  "-•^.^' 

"  On  what  grounds  ?"  '• 

"  He  affirms,  that  no  certificate  of  my  mother's  marriage  can 
be  found,  and  without  this  important  document,  the  law  will  not 
acknowledge  me  as  Edward  Moncton's  legitimate  son." 

"Or  Alexander  Moncton's  heir,"  replied  the  Baronet. 
"But  I  do  not  judge  like  the  rest  of  the  world,  young  man, 
and  dare  to  think  and  act  for  myself.  This  uncle  of  yours 
is  a  cunning  man.  I  know  him  and  his  ways  of  old.  I  know 
how  he  fomented  the  quarrel  between  his  brother  and  me,  to 
gain  his  own  ends  ;  and  this  son  of  his — this  Theophilus,  is  a 
finished  scoundrel  !  It  is  mortifying  to  the  pride  of  an  English 
gentleman  to  acknowledge  such  mea  as  his  successors." 

The  old  man  rose  from  his  seat,  and  paced  the  room  for  some 
time  in  silence.  He  was  so  much  occupied  with  his  own  reflec- 
tions, that  I  had  leisure  to  examine  his  countenance  minutely. 

A  strong  family  likene?^-  existed  between  him  and  my  father, 
and  uncle  Robert;  and  as  for  me — I  might  have  passed  for  his 


n 


k 


^-^ 


THE     MO  NOTON  S. 


109 


0 


^ 


son.  He  had  the  same  hig-h  ehead,  aquiline  nose,  chestnut 
curling  hair,  and  dark  pierc;  ,^  eyes  ;  but  his  face  lacked  the 
careless,  frank,  good  nature  of  my  father's,  and  was  totally  des- 
titute of  the  subtle,  stern  demeanor  of  my  uncle's.  The  expres- 
sion was  more  simple,  and  less  worldly  than  either.  It  was  a 
thoughtful,  intellectual,  benevolent  physiognomy,  which  excited 
feelings  of  confidence  and  affection  at  first  sight.  While  looking 
at  him,  I  thought  I  had  known  and  loved  him  for  years. 

His  tall  commanding  figure  was  slightly  bent  in  the  shoulders, 
and  his  hair  was  thickly  sprinkled  with  grey  ;  yet,  his  age  could 
scarcely  have  exceeded  fifty.  His  complexion,  unlike  my  hand- 
some uncle's,  was  very  pale,  and  an  early  accquaintance  with 
grief  might  be  traced  in  the  lines  that  furrowed  his  ample  white 
forehead.  ■^it.-.yi  ^Trb 

After  a  few  turns  through  the  room,  he  resumed  his  seat.   ?  -?*. 

*'  Mr.  Geoffrey  Moncton,"  he  said,  grasping  me  warmly  by 
the  hand,  "  I  wish  sincerely  that  you  could  prove  your  legiti- 
macy. There  is  something  about  you  thai/  pleases  and  interests 
me.  If  ever  you  stand  in  need  of  assistance  you  may  rely  upon 
me  as  your  friend.  It  is  not  Robert  Moncton's  bare  assf^rtion 
that  will  make  me  believe  you  a  bastard.  Tell  me  all  you  know 
about  yourself  ?"     •>•    «         ...  <       ,     r. '  <  n,    -ivrv  - 

I  endeavored  to  speak,  but  I  was  so  completely  overwhelmed 
by  his  unexpected  kindness,  that  I  could  find  no  words  to 
express  my  thanks,  or  comply  with  his  request.    ^       ":     ^      ^s 

A  loud  knocking  at  the  door,  announced  the  arrival  of  Mr. 

Moncton.  •■  -.      ■-,-■■  •■'  "   ■'         -     r-.^/       -    ..    «:;,;.,. 

"  That  is  my  uncle's  knock,"  I  cried,  breaking  the  spell  that 
bound  me.  •  '  •■■        .,,,,..,,.      ^ 

"  We  will  talk  over  this  matter  again,  Geoffrey.  If  we 
cannot  get  an  opportunity,  you  must  write,  and  tell  me  all  you 
know." 

Before  I  could  promise  anything  Mr.  Moncton  entered  the 
room.     He  cast  a  hurried,  scrutinizing  glance  at  me,  and  seemed 


\mmm 


110 


THE     UONOTONS. 


surprised  and  annoyed  at  finding  me  on  such  intimate  terms 
with  the  baronet,  to  whom  he  gave  a  most  cordial  and  flattering 

welcome.        i  /(,wj.    :;•.,-    .;:[   ^^uvl    ■-•  ^-         ;^-'-i.?p'.i>  '.fSMMir^MlHf'  «<*; 

The  other  met  his  advances  with  cold  and  studied  politeness  ; 
it  was  evident  to  me  that  he,  too,  put  a  restraint  upon  his  feel- 

"  I  am  sorry,  Sir  Alexander,  that  I  was  from  home  when  you 
arrived.    This  visit /row  yow  is  such  an  i*?iea;j)6c/eti  favor." 

"  Your  absence,  Robert  Moncton,  gave  me  an  opportunity  of 
making  the  acquaintance  of  your  nephew,  whom  I  have  found  a 
very  agreeable  and  entertaining  substitute,  as  well  as  a  near 
relation." 

Mr.  Moncton  regarded  me  with  a  haughty  and  contemptuous 
smile. 

"  I  am  happy  to  learn  that  your  time  was  so  agreeably  spent,  j 
By-the-by,  Geoffrey,"  turning  abruptly  to  me,  and  speaking  in  a 
hasty,  authoritative  tone,  "  are  those  papers  transcribed  I  gave 
you  at  parting  ?      They  will  be  required   in  court  early   to- , 
morrow."  .  r . 

He  evidently  expected  a  negative. 

"  They  are  ready,  sir,  and  many  others,  that  have  been  placed 
in  my  hands  since.  We  have  been  hard  at  work  in  the  office  all 
day." 

"  I  commend  your  diligence,"  he  said,  affecting  a  patronizing 
air  ;  "  I  am  sorry  to  take  you  from  such  pleasant  company,  but 
business,  you  know,  cannot  be  neglected.  This  bundle  of  papers  " 
— and  he  took  a  packet  from  his  wallet  and  placed  in  my  hand — 
**  must  be  transcribed  to-night.  You  need  not  go  to  the  office. 
Step  into  the  study,  you  will  find  all  that  you  require  there." 

This  was  but  a  stratagem  to  get  rid  of  my  unwelcome  pres- 
ence.    I  bowed  to  Sir  Alexander,  and  reluctantly  withdrew. 

It  so  happened,  that  Mr.  Moncton's  study  opened  into  th© 
dining-room,  and  without  meaning  to  do  so,  I  left  the  door  but 
partially  closed. 


THE    MOK0TON8 


111 


i 


:* 


' 


A 


Bitting  down  to  the  table,  I  trimmed  the  large  shaded  lamp 
that  always  burnt  there,  and  began  mechanically  to  transcribe 
the  uninteresting  papers.  An  hour  passed  away.  The  gentle- 
men were  conversing  upon  the  current  news  of  the  day  over  their 
wine.  The  servant  brought  up  coflFee,  and  I  ceased  to  give  any 
heed  to  what  was  passing  in  the  next  room.  i"; 

I  was  drawing  out  a  long  deed  of,  settlement,  when  my  atten- 
tion was  aroused  by  the  mention  of  my  own  name,  and  the  fol- 
lowing dialogue  caught  my  ear  :  '  '  *'      '•i!..;i    >'.n  '-.{f  -iip^t  *- 

"  This  nephew  of  yours,  Robert  Moncton,  is  a  fine  lad.  How 
is  it  that  I  never  heard  of  him  before  ?"      '    •"    •  '»  -» •^»t.  «■*  . 

"  I  did  not  think  it  necessary  to  introduce  him  to  your  notice. 
Sir  Alexander.  He  has  no  legal  claim  upon  our  protection. 
He  is  a  natural  son  of  Edward's,  whom  I  educate  for  the  pro- 
fession out  of  charity."         '•      r  :--•.;     ..    -  .  .  V(Mf.i',  fiUJ  j 

"  An  act  of  benevolence  hardly  to  be  expected  from  you," 
said  Sir  Alexander,  with  a  provoking  laugh.  "  I  suppose  you 
expect  to  get  the  interest  for  your  kindness  out  of  the  lad  ?"  ^;  ■ 

"  Why,  yes.  Ho  has  excellent  abilities,  and  might  do  much 
for  himself,  but  is  too  like  the  father,  but  with  this  difference — 
Edward  was  good-natured  and  careless  to  a  fault — this  boy  is 
haughty  and  petulant,  with  the  unmanageable  obstinacy  and 
self-will  of  old  Geoffrey.  He  is  not  grateful  for  the  many  obli- 
gations he  owes  to  me,  and  gives  me  frequent  cause  to  regret 
that  I  ever  adopted  him  into  my  family." 

"  When  you  are  tired  of  him,"  said  Sir  Alexander,  carelessly, 
"  you  may  turn  him  over  to  me.  I  am  sure  I  could  make  some- 
thing of  him."  •  > 

"You  are  not  in  earnest  ?"  in  a  tone  of  surprise.     • 

"  Never  more  so." 

A  long  silence  ensued.  My  hand  trembled  with  indignation. 
Was  this  Mr.  Moncton's  pretended  friendship  ?  I  tried  in  vain 
to  write.  "  It  is  useless,"  I  said  mentally.  "  The  deed  may  go 
to  the  devil,  and  Robert  Moncton  along  with  it,  for  what  I 


112 


THB     MONOTONS 


liv 


care,"  and  I  flung  the  parchment  from  me.     "  That  man  is  an 
infamous  liar  !     I  will  tell  him  so  to  his  face."       ^     ■>'-;       ni;?.: 
:  I  was  just  about  to  burst  into  the  room,  when  Sir  Alexander 
resumed  the  conversation.        '  '    " '■*  .'    «     •*     •       M 

"  Who  was  this  lad's  mother  ?"  '-  •♦  •  '•  •■  '  '  ' 
"^  "A  young  person  of  the  name  of  Rivers  ;  the  only  daughter 
of  a  poor  curate,  in  Derbyshire.  You  know  my  brother's  dissi- 
pated habits.  He  enticed  the  girl  from  her  peaceful  home,  and 
grief  for  her  loss  brought  the  old  father  to  his  grave.  This  boy 
was  the  sole  fruit  of  the  connection.  The  parents  were  never 
married." 

"  Is  that  a  fact  ?" 
<    "  I  have  made  every  legal  inqniry  upon  the  subject ;  but,  no 
proofs  are  in  existence  of  such  an  union  between  the  parties." 

"  I  can  scarcely  believe  Edward  guilty  of  such  a  villainous 
actl" 

"  Extravagant  men  of  unsettled  principles  are  not  much 
troubled  with  qualms  of  conscience.  On  his  death-bed  Edward 
repented  of  this  act,  and  recommended  the  child  to  my  especial 
care  and  protection.  His  letter,  which  I  have  by  me,  was 
couched  in  such  moving  terms,  that  I  considered  myself  bound 
in  duty  to  do  what  I  could  for  the  boy,  as  he  was  not  answer 
able  for  the  fault  of  the  parents.  I  took  him  home  the  day 
his  mother  was  buried,  and  he  has  been  an  inmate  of  my  house 
ever  since." 

"  When  he  is  out  of  his  time,  what  do  you  intend  doing 
for  him  ?" 

"I  have  not  yet  determined.  Perhaps,  associate  him  with 
myself  in  the  office.  There  is,  however,  one  stumbling-block  in 
the  way — the  dislike  which  exists  between  him  and  Theophilus." 

"Ay,  Geoffrey,  I  should  think,  would  prove  rather  a  formi- 
dable rival  to  your  son." 

"  Comparisons  are  odious.  Sir  Alexander  ;  I  should  be  sorry 
if  my  son  resembled  this  base-born  lad." 


THE    MONCTONS. 


113 


"  I  can  see  no  likeness  between  them,"  said  Sir  Alexander, 
drily,  " not  even  a  family  one.  By-thebye,  what  has  become  of 
Theophilus?"  .     •     .    <     .    ., ,  ,  ,       r    .-^  f 

"He  is  travelling  on  the  continent.  His  last  letter  was 
dated  from  Rome.  He  has  been  a  great  source  of  trouble  and 
vexation  to  me,  and  is  constantly  getting  into  scrapes  among 
the  women,  which  you  must  allow,  Sir  Alexander,  is  a  family 
failing  of  the  Monctons."  i  iv    r-   .  i 

"  His  conduct  lately  has  been  such,"  said  the  baronet,  in  an 
angry  voice,  "  that  it  makes  me  blush  ^hat  we  bear  the  same 
name.  It  was  to  speak  to  you  on  this  painful  subject  that 
brought  me  to  London." 

"  I  know  the  circumstance  to  which  you  allude,"  said  Mr. 
Moncton,  in  a  humble  tone;  "nor  can  I  defend  him  ;  but,  we 
must  make  some  allowances  for  youth  and  indiscretion.  We 
were  young  men  ourselves  once.  Sir  Alexander." 

"  Thank  God  1  bad  as  I  might  be,  no  poor  girl  could  accuse 
me  of  being  the  cause  of  her  ruin,"  cried  the  baronet,  striking 
his  hand  emphatically  upon  the  table.  "  But  this  young 
scoundrel  1  while  a  visitor  beneath  my  roof,  and  a  solicitor  for 
the  hand  of  my  daughter,  outraged  all  feelings  of  honor  and 
decency,  by  seducing  this  poor  girl,  on  our  own  estate,  at  our 
very  doors.  It  was  mean,  wicked,  dastardly — and  without  he 
marries  his  unhappy  victim,  he  shall  never  enter  my  doors 
again." 

"  Marry  /"  and  Mr.  Moncton  hissed  the  words  through  his 
clenched  teeth.  "  Let  him  dare  to  marry  her,  and  the  sole 
inheritance  he  gets  from  me,  will  be  his  father's  curse  1" 

"  Till  he  does  this,  and,  by  so  doing,  wipes  off  the  infamous 
stain  he  has  brought  upon  our  house,  I  must  consider  both 
father  and  son  as  strangers  I" 

"  Please  yourself,  Sir  Alexander.  You  will  never  bully  me 
into  giving  ray  consent  to  this  disgraceful  marriage,"  cried 
Moncton,  stamping  with  rage. 


«.  ' 


114 


THE    MONCTONS, 


There  was  another  long  pause.  I  heard  Sir  Alexander'  tra- 
yersiug  the  apartment  with  hasty  strides.  At  length,  stopping 
suddenly  before  his  excited  companion,  he  said  ;  "  Robert,  you 
may  be  right.  The  wicked  woman,  who  sold  her  grandchild 
for  money,  was  once  in  your  service.  You  best  know  what 
relationship  exists  between  your  son  and  his  beautiful  victim.'' 

A  hollow  laugh  burst  from  Mr.  Moncton's  lips. 

"  You  possess  a  lively  imagination,  Sir  Alexander.  I  did  love 
that  woman,  though  she  was  old  enough  then  to  have  been  my 
mother.  It  was  a  boyl  rash,  blind  love  ;  but  1  was  too  proud 
to  make  her  my  wife,  and  she  was  too  cunning  and  avaricious  to 
be  mine  on  any  other  terms.  Your  suspicions,  on  that  head  at 
least,  are  erroneous." 

"  Be  that  as  it  may,"  said  Sir  Alexander,  "  Theophilus  Monc- 
ton  shall  never  darken  my  doors  until  the  grave  closes  over 


n 


me. 

He  left  the  room  while  speaking.  A  few  minutes  later,  a 
carriage  dashed  from  the  door  at  a  rapid  rate,  and  I  felt  certain 
that  he  had  quitted  the  house.  My  uncle's  step  approached.  I 
let  my  head  drop  upon  the  table  and  feigned  sleep,  and  without 
attempting  to  waken  me,  he  withdrew.  i;     ^    ;,      .* 

From  that  night,  a  marked  alteration  took  place  in  his  man- 
ner towards  me.  It  was  evident  that  the  commendations 
bestowed  upon  me  by  Sir  Alexander  had  ruined  me  in  his  eyes, 
and  he  considered  me  in  the  light  of  a  formidable  rival.  He 
withdrew  his  confidence,  and  treated  me  with  the  most  pointed 
neglect.  But  he  could  not  well  banish  me  from  his  table,  or  de- 
prive me  of  the  standing  he  had  given  me  among  his  guests, 
without  insulting  them,  by  having  introduced  to  their  notice  a 
person  unworthy  of  it.  On  this  head  I  was  tolerably  secure,  as 
Mr.  Moncton  was  too  artful  a  man  to  criminate  himself.  In  a 
few  days  I  should  now  become  of  age,  when  the  term  of  my 
articles  would  expire  ;  I  should  then  be  my  own  master  ;  and 
several  private  applications  had  been  made  to  me  by  a  lawyer 


u 


'I 

a 


I 


THE    MONOTONB. 


115 


of  eminence,  to  accept  a  place  in  his  office,  with  promises  of  far- 
ther advancement  ;  this  rendered  my  ancle's  conduct  a  matter 
of  indifference.  The  sudden  and  unexpected  retorn  of  Theophi- 
lus,  gave  a  very  different  aspect  to  my  affairs.  »       ,  r^d  it  r^ut 


-#► 


I 


i , 


,     ,  ,     CHAPTER    XiV.   .     .      *      ,  a; .  ti 


t  n      - 


LOVE  AND  HATRED. 


<i    VI!.    i^^.l   ••»»  iM  »:.i  I 


At  first  Mr.  Moncton  refused  to  see  his  son  ;  but  on  the 
receipt  of  a  letter  from  Theophilutj,  his  positive  orders  on  that 
head  were  not  only  reversed,  but  the  worthy  young  gentleman 
was  received  with  marked  attention  by  his  father. 

The  contents  of  that  letter  I  did  not  know  then,  bat  got  a 
knowledge  of  them  in  after  years.  The  son  had  become 
acquainted  with  some  villainous  transactions  of  the  parent,  which 
he  threatened  to  expose  to  the  world,  if  any  rigorous  measures 
were  adopted  towards  himself ;  these  revelations  were  of  such  a 
startling  nature,  that  no  alternative  remained  to  Mr.  Moncton 
but  to  submit,  which  he  did,  and  with  a  wonderful  good  grace.  ** 

It  would  be  no  easy  matter  to  describe  the  surprise  and  indig- 
nation of  Theophilus  Moncton,  when  he  discovered  that  the 
despised  and  insulted  Geoffrey  had  become  a  person  of  some  ; 
consequence  during  his  absence.  I  shall  never  forget  the  studied 
air  of  indifference,  the  chilling  coldness,  with  which  he  met  me 
on  his  return,  and  under  the  cover  of  which  he  endeavored  to 
conceal  his  chagrin.  .•-....  ,  ;*    u,i, 

The  long-cherished  dislike  that  I  had  entertained  for  him,  had 
lost  much  of  its  bitter  character  during  a  separation  of  many 
months.    I  was  willing  to  believe  that  I  might  sometimes  have 


116 


TQE     MONCTONS. 


been  the  aggressor,  and  that  time,  and  a  more  intimate  know- 
ledge of  the  world,  might  have  produced  a  favorable  change  in 
his  surly  and  morose  disposition.  I  had  still  to  learn  that  the 
world  rarely  improves  the  heart,  but  only  teaches  both  sexes 
more  adroitly  to  conceal  its  imperfections.  I  could  perceive 
no  alteration  in  Theophilus  which  gave  the  least  promise  of 
mental  improvement.  After  a  few  minutes  spent  in  his  com- 
pany, I  found  him  more  arrogant  and  conceited  than  when  he 
bade  adieu  to  his  native  shores.  The  affectation  of  imitating 
foreign  manners,  and  in*lerlarding  his  conversation  with  French 
and  Italian,  rendered  him  less  attractive  in  his  assumed,  than  ho 
had  been  in  his  natural  character. 

I  listened  for  the  first  week  to  his  long,  egotistical  harangues, 
with  tolerable  patience,  hoping  that  the  theme  of  self  would 
soon  be  exhausted,  and  the  Frenchified  dandy  condescend  to 
remember  that  he  was  an  Englishman  ;  but  finding  him  becom- 
ing more  arrogant  and  assuming  by  listening  to  his  nonsense,  I 
turned  from  him  with  feelings  of  aversion,  which  I  could  but  ill 
conceal.  It  must  have  been  apparent,  even  to  himself,  that  I 
considered  his  company  a  bore. 

The  sympathy  that  exists  between  kindred  minds,  all  have 
experienced  at  some  period  of  their  lives  ;  but  the  mysterious 
chords  of  feeling  which  unite  hearts  formed  by  nature,  to  under- 
'  stand  and  appreciate  each  other,  are  not  more  electrical  in  their 
operation  than  those  which  have  their  origin  in  the  darker  pas- 
sions of  the  human  breast. 

How  repugnant  to  a  sensitive  mind,  is  a  forced  association 
with  persons  in  whom  we  can  find  no  affinity  ;  and  whese  senti- 
ments and  pursuits  are  at  utter  variance  with  our  own. 

I  was  acutely  alive  to  these  impressions,  whenever  I  encoun- 
tered the  sidelong,  watchful  glance  of  my  cousin.  There  was 
nothing  straightforward  in  his  soul  ;  he  never  looked  friend  or 
enemy  honestly  in  the  face.  We  mutually  understood  each 
other.    Though  he  scrupulously  avoided  addressing  his  conver- 


THE     UOKCTONS. 


at 


1 


sation  to  mo,  yet,  it  was  chiefly  intended  for  my  edification  j 
and  was  replete  with. spiteful  and  satirical  invectives. 

1  detest  this  covert  maimer  of  attack  ;  it  is  mean  and  unfair 
in  the  highest  degree,  as  it  deprives  the  person  attacked  from 
taking  his  own  part,  and  boldly  defending  himself.  Theophilua 
was  a  perfect  adept  at  this  dastardly  species  of  warfare. 

I  tried  to  treat  his  conduct  with  silent  contempt  ;  but  his 
provoking  remarks  galled  me  exceedingly  ;  and  often,  when  I 
appeared  unconscious  of  their  being  levelled  against  me,  and 
earnestly  engaged  in  the  perusal  of  some  dull  law-book,  I  was 
listening  to  every  wdrd  he  uttered,  and  quivering  with  indigna- 
tion in  every  limb.  Theophilus  enjoyed  my  discomfiture,  and  I 
found  his  powers  of  tormenting  greater  than  I  had  at  first 
imagined. 

The  second  day  after  his  arrival,  he  sent  a  message  up  to  my 
room,  to  inform  me  that  he  required  that  apartment  for  his 
valet,  and  I  could  remove  to  a  chamber  in  the  next  story. 

I  returned  for  answer,  "  That  I  should  not  quit  the  occupa- 
tion of  the  room  that  had  been  allotted  to  my  use  by  his  father, 
until  I  received  positive  orders  from  him  to  that  effect.  But  I 
should  only  require  it  a  few  days  longer,  and  then,  he  could  do 
as  he  pleased." 

This  insolent  demand  was  not  seconded  by  Mr.  Moncton,  and 
I  took  no  further  notice  of  it. 

That  my  uncle  had  a  game  of  his  own  to  play,  when  he  took 
me  from  the  obscurity  of  the  office  and  introduced  me  into 
society,  I  was  now  more  than  ever  convinced.  "Whilst  in  the 
presence  of  his  son  he  treated  me  with  marked  attention  and 
respect,  which  rendered  my  situation  far  more  trying  and  irk- 
some, as  I  mistrusted  the  designs  of  the  one  and  detested  the 
other. 

I  felt  that  Mr.  Moncton  acted  thus,  on  purpose  to  annnoy 
Theophilus,  and  make  him  feel  the  weight  of  the  resentment, 
which,  for  good  reasons,  he  dared  not  openly  expressj  while  he 


.  i 


»/' 


118 


THE     MONCTONS. 


praised  my  talents  and  application  to  basiness,  on  pnrpose  to 
rouse  the  envy  and  hatred  of  my  cousin.     • 

One  afternoon,  as  we  were  sittinf^  over  the  dessert,  Mr. 
Moncton,  as  usual,  addressed  his  conversation  exclusively  to 
me,  which  irritated  Theophilus  to  such  a  degree,  that  he  turned 
suddenly  to  his  father,  and  exclaimed  with  much  violence  : 

"  You  seem,  sir,  to  forget  you  have  a  son  ?" 

"  Yes,  when  that  son  forgot  what  was  due  to  himself,  and  to 
his  father's  house."       ■•'  • 

"  You  have  to  thank  yourself  for  tkat,"  was  the  insolent  reply. 
"  I  have  trod  too  closely  in  your  own  footsteps,  and  followed  too 
strictly  the  honest  principles  of  my  father."  He  laughed  bitterly. 
"  It  seems  strange,  that  you  should  be  surprised,  that  such  an 
example  should  have  produced  corresponding  efifects  upon  the 
mind  and  character  of  your  son."  '*>^     '*^' 

Shocked  at  this  horrible  speech,  for  in  spite  of  its  awful  truth, 
it  seemed  terrible  from  the  mouth  of  a  son,  I  looked  from 
Theophilus  to  his  father,  expecting  to  see  the  dark  eye  of  the 
latter,  alive  with  the  light  of  passion.  But  no — there  he  sat, 
mnt<^  as  a  marble  statue  ;  it  was  frightful  to  contemplate  the 
glossy  £tare  of  his  glittering  eye,  the  rigid  immobility  of  his 
countenance,     i  ■  ^ » 

"  God  of  Heaven  1"  I  mentally  exclaimed,  "  can  he  be  insulted 
in  this  manner  by  his  only  son,  and  remain  thus  calm  ?"  But 
calm  he  was,  without  even  attempting  a  reply,  whilst  the  inso- 
lent wretch  continued.  -  A  ^     ,, 

"  By  heaven  I  if  you  think  that  advancing  that  puppy  into 
my  place  will  bend  me  to  your  purpose,  you  grossly  deceive 
yourself.  I  pity  the  stupid  puppet  who  can  thus  snea!  to  his 
bitterest  enemy,  to  obtain  a  position  he  could  never  rise  to  by 
his  own  merit.  Silly  boy  ! — I  laugh  at  his  folly — our  shallow 
policy,  and  his  credulity." 

The  words  were  scarcely  oui  '»f  his  mouth,  when  I  sprang 


' 


THI    MONCTONI. 


119 


from  my  chair,  aad  with  a  well-directed  How,  leTelled  him  at 
my  feet. 

"Thuuk  you,  Oeoflfrcy  1"  exclaimed  Mr.  Moacton,  raising  the 
crest  fallen  hero  from  the  ground.  "  You  have  au8wur(L;d  both 
for  yourself  and  me." 

"I  have  been  too  rash,"  I  said,  seeing  the  blood  stream 
copiously  from  my  cousin's  nose  ;  "  but  he  ex  isperated  mo 
beyond  endurance." 

"  He  provoked  It  Mmrelf,"  returned  Mr.  Moncton.  "  I  never 
blame  any  per""  ^  v  ini  insulted,  for  taking  his  own  part.  You 
need  be  un  '•"•  no  appehension  of  a  hostile  encounter — Theophi- 
lus  is  n  00.^ aril;  dog,  he  can  bark  and  snarl,  but  dares  not 
fi„ht.  <>o  to  your  room,  Geoffrey,  you  will  be  better  friends 
after  this."  -   - 

Ho  said  this  in  a  tone  of  such  bitter  irony,  that  I  hardly 
knew  whether  he  was  pleased  with  what  I  had  done  or  offended, 
but  who  could  fathom  the  mind  of  such  a  man  ?  I  inst;|tutly 
complied  with  his  request,  and  felt,  however  mortifying  to  my 
pride,  that  Theophilus  Moncton  had  uttered  the  truth;   <.  •<  >  r.i 

"  In  another  week,"  I  cried,  as  I  strode  through  the  apart- 
ment—  "  yes,  in  less  than  a  week,  I  shall  obtain  my  majority — I 
shall  be  free,  and  then  farewell  to  this  accursed  house  of 
bondage  for  ever  1"       ^,  .  ...    m-     .,;»- 

*:  Theophilus  had  not  been  home  many  days,  before  I  perceived 
a  decided  alteration  in  the  once  friendly  greetings  I  had  been 
accustomed  to  receive  from  Mr.  Moncton's  guests.  I  was  no 
longer  invited  to  their  parties,  or  treated  with  those  flattering 
marks  of  attention  which  hiad  been  so  gratifying  to  my  vanity, 
and  privon  mo  .juch  an  exalted  idea  of  my  own  consequence. 

A\;  tirst,  I  was  at  a  loss  to  imagine  what  had  produced 
this  suddeq  change.  One  simple  sentence  at  length  solved  all 
these  unpleasant  queries,  and  pressed  the  unwelcome  truth  home 
to  my  heart.  Robert  Moncton  had  been  reconciled  to  his  son, 
and  I  was  ouce  more  regaplod  as  only  a  poor  relation. 


P 


120 


THE     MONOTONS. 


The  day  I  made  this  important  discovery,  I  had  been  detained 
at  the  office  long  after  our  usual  dinner  hour,  and  meeting  with 
a  friend  on  my  way  home,  I  sauntered  with  him  several  times  up 
and  down  Regent  street,  before  I  returned  to  my  uncle's  house. 

I  was  not  aware  that  my  uncle  expected  company  that  day, 
until  informed  by  Saunders  in  the  hall,  that  a  large  party  were 
assembled  in  the  dining-room. 

I  was  a  little  provoked  at  not  receiving  any  intimation  of  the 
event,  and  in  being  too  late  for  appearing  at  dinner,  the  third 
course  having  been  placed  on  the  table  ;  but  I  hurried  away  to 
my  ovrn  apartment  to  change  my  dress,  and  join  the  ladies  in 
the  drawing-room.         ^  ,  ....         .    .^ 

This  important  duty  was  scarcely  effected,  before  Saunders 
entered  with  a  tray  covered  with  dainties,  which  he  had  catered 
for  my  benefit.  "     -  -  ,-..^    ..,. 

■*•■■  "  I  was  determined,  Mr.  Geoffrey,  that  they  should  not  have 
all  the  good  things  to  themselves.  Here  is  an  excellent  cut  of 
salmon  and  lobster-sauce  ;  the  plump  breast  of  a  partridge,  and 
a  slice  of  delicious  ham — besides,  the  sunkets.  If  you  cannot 
make  a  good  dinner  off  these,  why,  I  says,  that  you  deserves  to 
be  hungry."  :  >  rtii  ■^■<:*  tf^^-Mi  .  -i/^-v-'i ■'>;-.>  ■;.■■■..;■  'f^  t;..  ii  rv:«.-  ti-iijs 
ftvAnd  throwing  a  snowy  napkin  over  a  small  table  near  the 
fire,  he  deposited  the  tray  and  its  tempting  contents  thereon, 
placed  my  chair,  and  stood  behind  it  with  beaming  eyes,  his 
jolly,  rosy  face  radiant  with  good-nature  and  benevolence.  '^'--^ 
:*-  I  thankei  im  heartily  for  his  attention  to  ray  comfort,  and 
being  tired  and  hungry,  did  ample  justice  to  the  meal  he  had 
provided.    "   .•iy.-.i.  ■  •:  .    '■  .;>^^    ;  v/.:.  ■;>  .-.i*  w-vi  ifi}"*t  v.  .^.  " 

"  This  party  has  been  got  up  in  a  hurry,  Saunders  ?"  ■xr^.^ovn 

'"Not  at  all,  sir.      I  carried  out  the  invitations  four  days 

ago."      ■f^;--V        .i  r     '■,::.■  -J    .-r    .    ).-r   #      -.v      ^  ■ ,  ■ '    u  "^i^  KJfl   ''' 

J*,  "You  surprise  me  1"  said  I,  dropping  my  knife  and  fork. 
"  Four  days  ago — and  I  know  nothing  about  it.  That  is  some- 
thing new."     '-rv    '■     ,'*..-  i^  A  .--isC;":!'  If.  V-'i    "fvn  ji^U^Ui  ;* 


( 


THE     MONOTONS 


121 


'  "It" is  young  Mr.  Moncton's  doings,  sir.  The  party  is  giten  in 
honor  of  his  return.  Says  Mr.  Theophilus  to  the  Guv'nor,  sayt 
he,  '  I  shall  say  nothing  to  Geoflfrcy,  about  it.  What  a  capi- 
tal joke  it  will  be,  to  see  him  bolt  into  the  room  without  study- 
ing the  Graces  for  an  hour.'  '  I  think  it  was  the  Graces,  he 
said,  sir  ;  but  whether  its  a  law  book,  or  a  book  of  fashions,  sir, 
hang  me  if  I  can  tell." 

"But  why  did  not  you  give  me  a  hint  of  this,  my  good 
fellow  ?" 

"Why,  sir,"  said  Saunders,  hesitating  and  looking  down, 
"  everybody  in  this  world  has  his  troubles,  and  I,  sir,  have 
mine.  Trouble,  sir,  makes  a  man  forget  every  one's  affairs  but 
his  own  ;  and  so,  sir,  the  thing  slipped  quite  out  of  my  'ead." 

"  And  what  has  happened  to  trouble  such  a  light  heart  as 
yours,  Saunders?" 

"  Ah,  sir  1"  sighing  and  shaking  his  head,  "  you  remember 
Jemima,  the  pretty  chamber-maid,  who  lives  at  Judge  Falcon's, 
across  the  street,  I  am  sure  you  must,  sir,  for  no  one  that  saw 
Jemima  once  could  forget  her  ;  and  it  was  your  first  praising 
her  that  made  me  cast  an  eye  upon  her.  Well,  sir,  I  looked 
and  loved,  and  became  desperate  about  her,  and  offered  her  my 
'onest  'and  and  'eart  sir,  and  she  promised  to  become  my  wife. 
Yes,  indeed,  she  did — and  we  exchanged  rings,  and  lucky  six- 
pences and  all  that ;  and  I  gave  master  warning  for  next  week  ; 
and  took  lodgings  in  a  genteel  country -looking  cottage  on  the 
Deptford  road.  But,  I  was  never  destined  to  find  love  there 
with  Jemima."         "  •-    ■  --  m.I  ^^>;.w5  \^^,■d    ^txl'-.,, 

"  And  what  has  happened  to  prevent  your  marriage  ?"  said  I, 
growing  impatient  and  wishing  to  cut  his  long  story  down  to 
the  basement.     •      -  ■  •  ■   "        •'^    -^     •      ^rV' 

"  Many  a  slip,  sir,  between  the  cup  and  the  lip.  There's  truth 
in  those  old  saws  howsomever.  Mr.  Theophilus's  French  valet, 
poured  such  a  heap  of  flummery  into  the  dear  girl's  ears,  that 
it  turned  her  'ead  altogether,  and  she  run  off  with  the  haffected 

6 


■f    1    J 


W:  I 


^S^- 


122 


THE    MONCTONS 


I 


puppy  last  night ;  but  let  him  look  well  after  himself,  for  I 
swear  the  first  time  I  catch  him,  I'll  make  cat's  meat  of  him. 
Ah,  sir,  the  song  says,  that  it's  the  men  who  is  so  cruelly  deceit- 
ful, but  I  have  found  it  the  reverse.  Never  trust  in  vimen,  sir  1 
I  swear  I'll  hate  'em  all  from  this  day,  for  Jemima's  sake." 

"  Consider  yourself  a  fortunate  fellow,"  said  I.  "  You  have 
made  a  very  narrow  escape." 

^*  Ah,  sir,  it's  all  very  well  talking,  when  you  don't  feel  the 
smart  yourself.  I  loved  that  false  creter  with  my  'ole  'art.  But 
there's  one  thing  (brightening  up)  which  consoles  me  under  this 
great  haffliction,  the  annoyance  that  it  has  given  to  Mr.  Theo- 
philus.  This  morning,  there  was  no  one  to  dress  him — to  flatter 
his  vanity  and  tell  him  what  a  fine  gentleman  he  is — I  had  to 
carry  up  his  boots  and  shaving  water.  It  was  rare  fun  to  see 
him  stamping  and  raving  about  the  room,  and  vishing  all  the 
vimen  in  the  vorld  at  the  devil.  But  hark  I — there's  the  dining- 
room  bell.  More  wine.  The  ladies  have  just  left  for  the  draw- 
ing-room." 

*  The  blaze  of  lights,  the  gay  assemblage  of  youth  and  beauty 
which  arrested  my  eyes  as  Saunders  threw  back  the  ^^folding- 
doors,  sent  a  sudden  thrill  of  joy  to  my  heart.  But  these  feelings 
were  quickly  damped  by  the  cold  and  distant  salutations  I 
received  from  the  larger  portion  of  the  company  there  assem- 
bled. Persons  who  a  few  weeks  before  had  courted  my  acquaint- 
ance and  flattered  my  vanity,  by  saying  and  doing  a  thousand 
agreeable  things,  had  not  a  friendly  word  to  offer.        i      i     ' 

The  meaning  glance  which  passed  round  the  circle  when  I 
appeared  among  them,  chilled  the  warm  glow  of  pleasure  which 
the  sight  of  so  many  fair  and  familiar  faces  had  called  up. 

What  could  be  the  meaning  of  all  this.  A  vague  suspicion 
flashed  into  my  mind,  that  my  cousin  was  the  direct  cause  of 
this  change  in  the  aspect  of  affairs,  and,  sick  and  disgusted  with 
the  world,  I  sat  down  at  a  distant  table  and  began  mechanically 
to  turn  over  a  large  portfolio  of  splendid  prints  that  I  had  not 


.1" 

f 


THE    HON  CTONS. 


123 


noticed  before — and  which  I  afterwards  discovered,  had  been 
brought  by  Theophilus  from  Paris. 

A  half  suppressed  titter  from  two  young  ladies  near  me,  and 
which  I  felt  was  meant  for  me,  stung  my  proud  heart  to  the 
quick.  A  dark  mist  floated  between  me  and  the  lights ;  and 
the  next  moment,  I  determined  to  leave  the  room  in  which  I 
felt  that  my  presence  was  not  required,  and  where  I  was 
evidently  regarded  as  an  intruder. 

-  I  had  just  risen  from  my  seat  to  eflfect  a  quiet  retreat,  when 
the  folding-doors  were  again  thrown  open,  and  Mrs.  Hepborn 
and  Miss  Lee  were  announced. 

What  were  these  strangers  to  me  ?  The  new  arrival  appeared 
to  make  no  small  sensation.  A  general  bustle  ensued,  and  my 
eyes  unconsciously  followed  the  rest. 

The  blood  receded  from  my  cheeks,  to  flush  them  again  to 
a  feverish  glow,  when  I  instantly  recognized  the  lovely  girl  and 
her  aunt,  who  I  had  for  so  many  months  sought  for,  and  sought 
in  vain.  '  ■fMi'-^i^mi 

Yes  it  was  her — my  adored  Catherine — no  longer  pale  and 
agitatia  from  recent  danger,  but  radiant  in  youth  and  beauty, 
her  lovely  person  adorned  with  .costly  jewels,  and  the  rich 
garments  that  fashion  has  rendered  indispensable  to  her  wealthy 
votaries.  •-:;■   s.v^    .•  -    --      :,  ■■    '  .-  .^v  ..v^Mz-iJm>, 

*•  Miss  Lee,"  was  whispered  among  the  ladies  near  me. 

"  Mr.  Moncton's  ward  ?"  ^  :      - 

"  The  rich  heiress."         ^       ■•  <         -  *  M' 

"  Do  you  think  her  handsome  ?" 

"Yes — passable."  >  ^«    / 

"Too  short."  ■  .  '  '  -  • 

"  Her  figure  pretty — but  insignificant." 

"  She  is  just  out."    ,-    .     .       ..  ^ 

"  So  I  hear.  She  will  not  make  any  great  sensation.  Too 
sentimental  and  countrified.  As  Lord  Byron  says — '  Smells  of 
bread  and  butter.' "     v  .-..     .        .  -.         :;i;f  » «     ^    --h^^-^ 


\ 


\ 


r 


".  ;•..*,. 


-4^ 


.& 


THE     MONCTONS. 


I 


This  last  spiteful  r6mark,  I  considered  a  compliment.  MTy 
charming  Kate,  looked  as  fresh  and  natural  as  a  new-blown  rose 
with  the  morning  dew  still  fresh  upon  its  petals.  There  was 
nothing  studied  or  aflfected  about  her — no  appearance  of  display 
— no  effort  to  attract  admiration  ;  she  was  an  unsophisticated 
child  of  nature,  and  the  delightful  frankness,  with  which  she 
received  the  homage  of  the  male  portion  of  the  company,  was 
quite  a  contrast  to  the  supercilious  airs  of  the  fashionable  belles. 

The  opinion  of  the  gentlemen  with  regard  to  the  fair 
dibutante,  was  quite  the  reverse  of  those  given  by  her  own  sex. 

"  What  a  lovely  girl." 

"  What  an  easy  graceful  carriage." 

"Did  you  ever  see  a  more  charming  expression — a  more 
bewitching  smile  ?    A  perfect  lady  from  head  to  foot." 

"  I  have  lost  my  heart  already." 

"  By  Jove  1  won't  she  make  a  noise  in  the  gay  world  ?" 

"  The  beauty  of  the  season." 

"  A  prize,  independent  of  her  large  fortune." 

"  And  doubly  a  prize  with."  ^    • 

And  thus  the  men  prated  of  her  among  themselves.    ^ 

The  excitement  at  length  subsided  ;  and  favored  by  the 
obscurity  of  my  situation,  I  could  watch  at  a  distance  all  her 
movements,  and  never  tire  of  gazing  upon  that  beaming  face. 

By  some  strange  coincidence,  I  could  hardly  think  it  purely 
acc^ental,  Mrs.  Hepburn  and  her  niece  came  up  to  the  table 
upon  which  I  was  leaning.        •  * 

I  rose  up  in  confusion,  wondering  if  they  would  recognize  me, 
and  offered  the  elder  lady  my  chair. 

In  my  hurry  and  agitation,  the  portfolio  fell  from  my  hand, 
and  the  fine  prints  were  scattered  over  the  floor  and  table. 

A  general  laugh  arose  at  my  expense — I  felt  annoyed,  but 
laughed  as  loudly  as  the  rest.  Miss  Lee,  very  good-naturedly 
assisted  me  in  restoring  the  prints  to  their  place,  then  looking 
earnestly  in  my  face  for  a  few  seconds,  she  said — "  Surely,  I 


# 


f 


% 


1 


THE     MONGTOKS. 


125 


/ 


« 


am  not  deceived — you  are  the  gentleman  who  rescued  me  from 
that  frightful  situation  in  Oxford  street?"  ,  ..^^.^    -"^j^'^ntifu^n 

"  The  same,"  said  I,  with  a  smile. 

"  How  delighted  I  am  to  meet  you  once  more,  my  brave 
preserver,"  she  cried,  giving  me  her  hand,  and  warmly  shaking 
mine  ;*"  I  was  afraid  that  I  should  never  see  you  again.  And 
your  name — you  must  tell  me  your  name." 

"  Geoffrey  Moncton.  But,  Miss  Lee,  do  not  distress  me  by 
thinking  so  much  of  a  trifling  service,  which  gave  me  so  much 
pleasure." 

"  Trifling,  do  you  call  it.  Mr.  Geoffrey  Moncton,  you  saved 
my  life,  and  I  never  can  forget  the  debt  of  gratitude  I  owe  you. 
Aunt — turning  to  Mrs.  Hepburn — do  you  remember  this  gen- 
tleman ?  How  often  we  have  talked  that  adventure  over,  and 
wondered  who  my  preserver  was.  It  is  such  a  pleasure  to  see 
him  here."  ,  *  '  '  ^^,. ' 

The  old  lady,  though  not  quite  so  eloquent  as  her  niece,  was 
kind  enough  in  her  way.  Wishing  to  change  the  subject,  I 
asked  Miss  Leo  if  she  drew  ?" 

"^ttle."  ■•'   "  '    '■'  ' 

"  Let  us  examine  these  beautiful  prints." 

I  gave  her  a  chair,  and  leant  over  her.  My  heart  fluttered 
with  delight.  I  forgot  my  recent  mortification.  I  was  near 
her,  and,  in  the  rapture  of  the  moment,  could  have  defied  tLe 
malice  of  the  wbole  world.  ^ 

"I  am  no  judge  of  the  merits  or  demerits  of  apicture,"  she 
said,  in  her  sweet,  gentle  voice.  "  I  know  what  pleases  me, 
and  suffer  my  heart  to  decide  for  my  head." 

"  That  is  exactly  my  case.  Miss  Lee.  A  picture  to  interest 
me,  must  produce  the  same  effect  upon  my  mind  as  if  the  object 
represented  was  really  there.  This  is  the  reason,  perhaps,  why 
I  feel  less'  pleasure  in  examining  those  pictures  by  the  ancient 
masters,  thouj^h  portrayed  with  matchless  skill,  that  represent 
the  heathen  deities.    With  Jupiter,  Mars  and  Yenus,  I  can  feel 


•'.'^♦V.     '■*! 


/ 


i 


.m 


196 


THE    MOJfCrONS. 


little  sympathy,  while  the  truthful  and  spirited  delineations 
of  Wilkie  and  Gainsborough,  which  have  been  familiar  from 
childhood,  strike  home  to  the  heart." 

Before  Miss  Lee  could  reply,  Theophilus  Moncton  walked  to 
the  table  at  which  we  were  talking.  He  stared  at  me,  without 
deigning  a  word  of  recognition,  and  shook  hands  cordially  with 
Miss  Lee  and  her  aunt.  ^ 

"  Happy ^  see  you  here,  Catherine — was  afraid  you  would 
be  too  mucn  fatigued,  after  dancing  all  night,  to  give  us  a  look 
in  this  evening.  Been  admiring  my  prints?  Splendid  collec-' 
tion,  ain't  they  ?  By-the-by,  Mr.  Geoffrey,  I  would  thank  you 
to  be  more  careful  in  handling  them.  Persons  unaccustomed  to 
fine  drawings,  are  apt  to  injure  them  by  rough  treatment."         "^ 

A  contemptuous  glance  was  my  reply,  which  was  returned 
by  a  sidelong  withering  glare  of  hate.  (!'i^  .;  .;  > 

"  That  picture,  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  room,"  continued 
my  tormentor,  anxious  to  divert  Miss  Lee's  attention  from  me, 
"is  a  fine  portrait,  by  Sir  Thomas  Lawrence.  You  are  an 
admirer  of  his  style  ;  let  us  examine  the  picture  nearer  ;  I  want 
to  have  your  opinion  of  it."  '  ■"''■    '^' 

f-  They  crossed  the  room.    In  a  few  seconds,  a  large  group, 
gathered  before  the  picture  of  which  Theophilus  and  Miss  Lee 
formed  the  nucleus,  and  half  a  dozen  wax-lights  were  held  up 
to  exhibit  it  to  the  best  advantage.  '    ^  ^    '  '^  '-^'  ^^'*  *•  ' 

THeophilus  was  eloquent  in  praising  Lawrence's  style  of  paint- 
ing, and  entertained  the  company  with  an  elaborate  detail  of  all 
the  celebrated  paintings  he  had  seen  abroad  ;  the  studios  he  had 
visited,  and  the  distinguished  artists  he  had  patronized.  The 
fellow  could  talk  well,  when  he  pleased,  on  any  subject,  and 
'}Ossessed  considerable  talent  and  taste  for  the  arts ;  yet,  I 
thought  him  more  egotistical  and  affected  than  usual,  when 
standing  beside  the  simple  and  graceful  Catherine  Lee. 

She  listened  to  him  with  politeness,  until  the  gratuitous  leo- 
tnre  came  to  an  end,  and  then  quietly  resumed  her  s^^at  at  the 


m 


k: 


% 


«. 


I 


THE    MONOTONS 


12t. 


m 


% 


[  M  fti 


table  by  me,   with  whom  she  entered  into  a  lively  conver- 
sation. 

The  swarthy  glow  of  indignation  mounted  to  my  coasin's 
wan  face.  He  drew  back,  and  muttered  something  inaudibly 
between  his  shut  teeth,  while  I  secretly  enjoyed  his  chagrin. 
When  supper  was  announced  I  had  the  honor  of  conducting 
Miss  Lee  down  stairs,  leaving  my  cousin  to  take  charge  of  the 
elder  lady.  Nor  did  my  triumph  end  here.  Catherine  insisted 
on  taking  a  scat  at  the  lower  end  of  the  table,  and  I  found 
myself,  once  more,  placed  by  her  side. 

"  I  do  detest  upper  seats  at  feasts  and  synagogues,"  said  she, 
"  it  exposes  you  to  observation,  while  in  our  pleasant  obscurity 
we  can  enjoy  a  little  friendly  chat.  I  never  could  understand 
why  so  many  ladies  quarrel  so  much  about  taking  precedence  of 
each  other."  •         ./,;?>.' r 

"  It  is  only  ambition  in  a  small  way,"  said  I.  i    '^ 

"  Yery  small,  indeed,"  she  continued,  laughing.     "But  tell, 
me,  why  you  were  not  at  Mrs.  Wilton's  large  party  last  night  ?"    ,, 

"  Simply,  because  I  was  not  invited."  ,  ..,       >  ,    .     -.  r; 

"Tie  Monctous  were  there,  father  and  son.  But,  perhaps 
you  mix  very  little  in  the  gaieties  of  the  town."    ; .    ,  „„  _„.i  >v  i^ 

"  Since  Theophilus  returned,  I  have  been  very  little  from 
home  ;  and  have  become  a  mere  cipher  with  my  old  friends.  A. 
few  weeks  ago,  these  Wiltons  courted  my  acquaintance,  and  the 
young  men  vied  with  each  other,  in  paying  me  attention.  To- 
night, we  met  as  perfect  strangers.  To  me,  the  change  is 
unaccountable.  I  am,  however,  a  perfect  novice  in  the  ways  of  ' 
the  world.  Such  examples  of  selfish  meanness  often  repeated, 
will  render  me  a  misanthrope." 

"  You  must  not  condemn  all,  because  you  have  experienced 
the  unmerited  neglect  of  a  few,"  said  Catherine.  "Selfish, 
interested  people  are  found  in  every  commuuity.  It  is  a  maxim 
with  me,  never  to  judge  the  mass  by  individuals.  Many  of  the 
persons  we  meet  with  in  the  world  do  not  live  entirely  for  it, 


128 


THE    MONOTONS 


aad  are  incapable  of  the  conduct  you  deplore.  I  have  met  with 
warm  hearts  and  kind  friends  amid  the  gay  scenes  you  ccndemn. 
— young  people,  who  like  myself,  are  compelled  by  circumstances 
to  mingle  in  society,  while  their  thouj^hts  and  affuctions  are  far 
away."  ..  r»  .   .     ,         .     .  ■;    . 

"  You  have  never  experienced  the  frowns  of  the  world,"  I 
said,  "  I  can  scarcely  allow  you  to  be  a  competent  judge." 

"  I  am  prepared  to  meet  them,"  she  replied,  quickly — then 
stopped — and  sighed  deeply.     I  looked  up  inquiringly. 

The  expression  of  her  fine  face  was  changed  from  a  cheerful 
to  a  pensive  cast.  It  was  not  actual  sorrow  that  threw  a  shade 
over  her  clear  brow,  but  she  looked  as  if  she  had  encountered 
some  unexpected  misfortune,  and  was  prepared  to  meet  it  with 
resignation.  She  passed  her  small  white  hand  slowly  across  her 
forehead,  and  I  thought  I  saw  tears  trembling  in  her  eyes.  My 
interest  was  deeply  excited,  and  I  loved  her  better  for  having 
Buffered.  I  redoubled  my  attentions,  and  before  the  company 
rose  from  table,  I  fancied  that  she  no  longer  regarded  me  with 
indifference. 

From  this  happy  dream,  I  too  soon  awoke  to  an  agonizing 
consciousness  of  my  own  insignificance. 

A  Counsellor  Sabine,  who  had  been  conversing  with  my  uncle 
during  the  greater  part  of  the  evening,  beckoned  me  over  to  a 
distant  part  of  the  room,  and  I  reluctantly  obeyed  the  summons. 

He  wanted  me  to  settle  a  dispute  between  him  and  Mr. 
Moncton,  relative  to  some  papers,  which  he  said,  had  been 
entrusted  to  my  care. 

My  place  by  Catherine  Lee's  side,  was  instantly  filled  by 
Theophilus. 

Mrs.  Hepbuni;  Catherine's  aunt,  asked  him  in  a  low  voice, 
which,  occupied  as  I  was  with  other  matters,  did  not  fail  to 
reach  my  ears,  who  I  was,  and  the  station  I  held  in  society, 
and  ended  her  remarks,  by  passing  sundry  encomiums  on  my 
person  and  accomplishments. .  .       *?  --  ^  •!•;    - 


.)'    'f^;' 


Jf 
^ 


THE    HONOTONS. 


129 


**  Accomplishments .'"  repeated  Theophilus,  with  a  sneer.  "  I 
know  not  how  he  should  be  accomplished,  Mrs.  Hepburn.  He 
is  a  poor  clerk  in  my  father's  o£8ce  ;  and  as  to  his  standing  in 
society,  that  is  something  new  to  me.  He  is  a  natural  son  of  my 
uncle  Edward's,  whom  my  father  adopted  into  the  family,  and 
brought  him  up  out  of  charity.  I  was  surprised  at  him,  an 
uninvited  guest,  daring  to  address  his  conversation  to  Miss 
Lee." 

It  was  well  for  the  dastard,  that  he  was  protected  by  the 
presence  of  ladies,  and  beyond  the  reach  of  my  arm,  or  I 
certainly  should  have  committed  an  act  of  violence — perhaps 
murder. 

I  restrained  my  indignation,  however,  and  appeared  out- 
wardly calm — received  some  instructions  from  the  counsellor 
and  noted  them  down  with  stoical  precision.  My  hand  did  not 
tremble,  my  passion  was  too  terrible  for  trifling  demonstra- 
tions. I  could  have  put  a  pistol  to  his  head,  and  seen  him 
bleeding  at  my  feet,  without  feeling  one  pang  of  remorse. 

Miss  Lee's  carriage  was  announced.  I  roused  myself  from 
a  dream  of  vengeance,  and  offered  my  arm  to  conduct  her 
down  stairs.  She  cast  upon  me  a  look  of  sorrowful  meaning, 
and  her  aunt  refused  ray  services  with  a  distant  bow. 

I  drew  proudly  back.  '•  This,"  I  thought,  "  is  their  grati- 
tude.   This  is  like  the  rest  of  the  world."  ^  — —  «.' 

Mrs.  Hepburn  gave  her  hand  to  Theophilus,  and  with  a  grin 
of  triumph  he  led  them  out.       '    "  '  "" 

After  the  company  had  separated  I  went  up  to  Theophilus, 
and  demanded  an  explanation  of  his  ungentlemanly  conduct. 
The  answer  I  received  was  an  insolent  laugh. 
!  No  longer  able  to  restrain  my  feelings,  I  poured  upon  him 
the  boiling  rage  of  my  indignation,  and  did  and  said  many  bit- 
ter things,  that  had  been  better  unsaid.  He  threatened  to  com- 
plain of  me  to  his  father.  I  dared  him  to  do  his  worst — and 
left  the  room  in  a  state  of  dreadful  excitement. 

6* 


130 


THE     HON  CTONS. 


j$ 


"  The  next  morning,  while  busy  in  the  office,  Mr.  Moncton  came 
in,  and  closed  the  door  carefully  after  him. 

I  rose  as  he  entered  and  stood  erect  before  him.  I  knew  by 
the  deadly  pallor  of  his  face,  that  something  decisive  was  aboat 
to  take  place. 

"  Geoffrey,"  he  said,  in  a  low,  hoarse  voice,  which  he  vainly 
endeavored  to  make  calm,  "  you  have  grossly  insulted  ray  son, 
and  spoken  to  him  in  the  most  disrespectful  terms  of  me,  yoar 
friend  and  benefactor.  Without  you  will  make  a  full  and  satis- 
factory apology  to  me  for  such  intemperate  language,  and  ask 
his  pardon,  you  may  dread  ray  just  displeasure." 

"  Ask  his  pardon  I"  I  cried  ;  almost  choking  with  passion — 
"  for  what  ?  For  his  treating  me  like  a  menial  and  a  slave  1 — 
Never,  Mr.  Moncton,  never  I" 

My  uncle  regarded  me  with  the  same  icy  glance  which  froze 
my  blood  when  a  child,  while  I  recapitulated  my  wrongs,  with 
all  the  eloquence  which  passion  gives.     Passion  which  makes 
even  the  slow  of  speech  act  the  part  of  an  orator. 
'*  He  listened  to  me,  with  a  smile  of  derision.  • "  '     *"' 

Carried  beyond  the  bounds  of  prudence,  I  told  him,  that  I 
would  no  longer  be  subjected  to  such  degrading  tyranny — that 
his  deceitful  conduct  had  cancelled  all  ties  of  obligation  between 
us — that  the  favors  lately  conferred  upon  me,  I  now  saw,  had 
only  been  bestowed  to  effect  my  ruin — that  he  had  been  acting 
a  base  and  treacherous  game  with  me  to  further  his  own  dishon- 
est views — that  I  was  fully  aware  of  his  motives,  and  appreci- 
ated them  as  they  deserved.  That  he  well  knew  the  story  of 
my  illegitimacy  was  a  forgery,  that  I  had  the  means  to  prove  it 
one,  and  would  do  it  shortly.  That  the  term  of  my  articles 
would  expire  on  the  following  day,  and  I  would  then  leave  his 
house  for  ever  and  seek  my  own  living."  •     '  ■ ' 

'   "  You  may  do  so  to-day,  he  replied,  in  the  same  cool  sar- 
castic tone  ;  and  unlocking  his  desk  he  took  out  the  indentures. 

A  sudden  terror  seized  me.    Something  in  his  look  threatened 


- 


I 


il 


h 


I 


h 


THE    MO  NCTONB. 


181 


^, 


danger — I  drew  a  quicker  breath,  and  advanced  a  few  paces 
nearer.  r  i     . 

All  my  hopes  were  centered  in  that  sheet  of  parchment,  to 
obtain  which,  I  had  endured  seven  years  of  cruel  bondage. 
"  No,  no,"  I  said,  meutally — he  cannot  be  such  a  villain — he 
dare  not  do  it  I" 

The  next  moment  the  fatal  scroll  lay  torn  and  defaced  at  my 
feet. 

A  cry  of  despair  burst  from  my  lips — I  sprang  forward  and 
with  one  blow  laid  him  senseless  at  my  feet  and  fled  from  the 
house. 

I  saw  Robert  Moncton  but  once  again.  Recollection  shud- 
ders when  I  recall  that  dreadful  meeting. 

I  walked  rapidly  down  the  street,  perfectly  unconscious  that  I 
was  without  my  hat,  and  that  the  rain  was  falling  in  torrents  ; 
or  that  I  was  an  object  of  curios'ty  to  the  gaping  crowds  that 
followed  me. 

Some  one  caught  my  arm. 

I  turned  angrily  round  to  shake  off  the  intruder — it  was  my 
friend  Harrison. 

"In  the  name  of  Heaven,  Geoffrey,  tell  me  what  has  hap- 
pened 1  What  is  the  matter — are  you  in  your  right  senses 't 
Have  you  quarrelled  with  your  uncle  ?  Let  me  return  with 
you  to  the  house,"  were  questions  he  asked  in  a  breath. 

*'My  uncle !  He  is  an  infernal  scoundrel  I"  I  exclaimed, 
throwing  out  my  clenched  hand,  and  hurrying  on  still  faster. 
"  Oh,  that  I  could  crush  him  with  one  blow  of  this  fist !"     '^^^.v, 

"  Geoffrey,  you  are  mad — do  you  know  what  you  say  ?"     ,<*, 

"  Perfectly  well — ^stand  back,  and  let  me  kill  him  I" 

He  put  his  arm  forcibly  round  me.  "  Calm  yourself,  dear 
Geoffrey,  What  has  caused  this  dreadful  excitement  ?  Good 
God  I  how  you  tremble.  Lean  upon  me — heavier  yet.  The 
arm  of  a  sincere  friend  supports  you— one  who  jvill  never  desert 
you,  let  what  will  befall." 


ijiA-!i£iH^' 


133 


THI     MONOTONS 


■"w 


P 


*'  Leave  me,  George,  to  my  fato.  I  have  been  shamefully 
treated,  and  I  don't  care  a what  becomes  of  me  1" 

"  If  you  are  unable  to  take  care  of  yourself,  Geoffrey,"  he 
replied,  clasping  my  hand  fervently  in  his  own,  and  directing 
ray  steps  down  a  less  frequented  street,  "  it  is  highly  necessary 
that  some  one  should,  until  your  mind  is  restored  to  its  usual 
tranquillity.  Return  with  me  to  my  lodgings  ;  take  a  composing 
draught  and  go  to  bed.  Your  eyes  are  bloodshot,  and  starting 
from  your  head  for  want  of  sleep." 

*'  Sleep  I  how  is  it  possible  for  me  to  sleep,  when  the  blood  is 
boiling  in  my  veins,  and  my  brain  is  on  fire,  and  I  am  tempted 
every  moment  to  commit  an  act  of  desperation  ?"  .  ..    i  ,; 

"  This  feverish  state  cannot  last,  my  poor  friend  ;  these 
furious  bursts  of  passion  must  yield  to  exhaustion.  Your  knees 
bend  under  yon.  In  a  few  minutes  we  shall  be  beyond  public 
observation,  and  can  talk  over  the  matter  calmly."     :r  i  >i  ^  m 

As  he  ceased  speaking,  a  deadly  faintness  stole  over  me — my 
head  grew  giddy,  the  surrounding  objects  swam  round  me  in 
endless  circles  and  with  surprising  rapidity,  the  heavens  vanished 
from  my  sight,  and  darkness,  blank  darkness  closed  me  in,  and  I 
should  have  fallen  to  the  earth,  but  for  the  strong  arm  that 


'T 


'r«(H       t 


held  me  in  its  grasp.        •      .  •        ••;    ••  fii/  ii  jf 

:  When  I  again  opened  my  eyes,  it  was  in  the  identical  apothe- 
cary's shop  into  which,  some  months  before,  I  had  carried  the 
fainting  Catherine  ^iee.  My  old  enemy,  the  little  apothecary, 
was  preparing  to  open  a  vein  in  my  arm.  This  operation 
afforded  me  instant  relief ;  my  fury  began  to  subside,  and  tears 
slowly  trickled  down  my  cheeks.  •         .^ '-'  * 

George,  who  was  anxiously  watching  every  change  in  my 
countenance,  told  the  shop-boy  to  call  a  coach,  which  conveyed 
me  in  a  few  minutes  to  his  old  lodgings  in  Fleet  street.    ' 


A*f .  f 


>.*'• '.' 


I 


<i 


'i 


TBI    1CON0TOK8. 


188 


i 

I 


Lw  •  'i*  (»I»V  '  •-'  ''■*  *  .  •  ••'•♦'I'  *■''  •  ' 

•1'"'  '  '^       GEORGE   HARRISON   TELLS  HIS  HISTORY.  '      "*  "        ^'* 


■,-..,*    ..■•'•  :    /    ! 


H' 


(      -J 


i*     .,•.  I     .    -1     '    .      *    , 


CHAPTER   XV. 


Many  days  passed  over  me  of  which  I  was  totally  nncon- 
scious.  A  violent  fever  had  set  in,  and  I  was  not  aware  of  my 
situation  ;  scarcely  of  the  bodily  suflferings  I  endured.  My 
wants  were  ministered  to  by  the  kindest,  truest  friend  that 
ever  blessed  and  soothed  the  miseries  of  the  unfortunate.       ***'"' 

Fancying  myself  still  under  the  control  of  Robert  Moncton, 
and  a  resident  beneath  his  roof,  I  raved  continually  of  my 
wrongs,  and  exhausted  myself  by  threats  of  vengeance.    *"  ^'' "  *' 

Long  before  the  crisis  of  the  fever  was  passed,  George  had 
gathered  from  my  impotent  ravings  the  story  of  ray  injuries.      *»*' 

After  fluctuating  a  long  time  between  life  and  death,  youth 
and  a  naturally  strong  constitution  conquered  my  malady,  and 
I  once  more  thought  and  felt  like  a  rational  creature.  '^^"^  5>i 

My  indignation  against  my  uncle  and  cousin  subsided  into  a 
sullen,  implacable  hatred,  to  overcome  which  I  tried,  and  even 
prayed  in  vain.  Ashamed  of  harboring  this  sinful  passion,  I  yet 
wanted  the  moral  courage  and  Christian  forbearance,  to  over- 
come what  reason  and  conscience  united  to  condemn.  ""  '■•*       •  ^ 

Degraded  in  my  own  estimation,  I  longed,  yet  dreaded  to  con- 
fide to  the  generous  Harrison,  that  the  man  he  loved  and 
attended  with  such  devotion,  was  capable  of  such  base  degen- 
eracy— of  entertaining  sentiments  only  worthy  of  Robert  Monc- 
ton and  his  son. 

The  violence  of  my  disorder  had  reduced  me  to  such  a  state 
of  weakness  that  I  imagined  myself  at  the  point  of  death,  when 


r  * 


>  1 


fit 


•     \. 


134 


THE     M0NCT0N3. 


/ 


t? 


I  was  actually  out  of  danger.  My  nervous  system  was  so 
greatly  affected  that  I  yielded  to  the  most  childish  fears,  and 
contemplated  dying  with  indescribable  horror. 

Harrison,  who  was  unacquainted  with  the  state  of  my  mind, 
attributed  these  feelings  to  the  reaction  produced  by  the  fever  ; 
and  thinking  that  a  state  of  quiescence  was  necessary  for  my 
recovery,  seldom  spoke  to  me  but  at  those  times  when,  with 
tenderness  almost  feminine,  he  gave  me  food  and  medicine, 
arranged  my  pillows,  or  made  affectionate  inquiries  about  my 
bodily  state. 

I  often  pretended  to  be  asleep,  while  my  mind  was  actively 
employed  in  conjuring  up  a  host  of  ghastly  phantoms,  which 
prevented  my  recovery,  and  were  effectually  undermining  my 
reason. 

One  afternoon,  as  I  lay  in  a  sort  of  dreamy  state,  between 
sleeping  and  waking,  and  mournfully  brooding  over  my  perishing 
hopes  and  approaching  dissolution,  I  thought  that  a  majestic 
figure  clothed  in  flowing  garments  of  glistening  white,  came  to 
my  bedside,  and  said  to  me  in  tones  of  melodious  sweetness, 
"Poor,  perishing,  sinful  child  of  earth,  if  you  wish  to  enter 
Heaven,  you  must  first  forgive  your  enemies.  The  gate  of  Life 
is  kept  by  Love,  who  in  ready  to  open  to  every  one  who  first 
withdraws  the  bar  which  Hatred  has  placed  before  the  narrow 
entrance." 

-  Overwhelmed  with  fear  and  astonishment,  I  started  up  in  the 
bed,  exclaiming  in  tones  of  agonized  entreaty,  "  Oh  God,  forgive 
me  I     I  cannot  do  it  1" 

"  Do  what,  dearest  Geoffrey  ?"  said  George,  coming  to  the 
bedside,  and  taking  my  hand  in  his. 

"Forgive  my  enemies.  Forgive  those  wretches  who  have 
brought  me  to  this  state,  and  by  their  cruel  conduct  placed  both 
life  and  reason  in  jeopardy.  I  cannot  do  it,  though  He,  the 
merciful — who  dying  forgave  his  enemies — commands  me  to 
do  so." 


■r 


THE    M0NCT0N3. 


135 


"  Geoffrey,"  said  Harrison,  tenderly,  "  you  can  never  recover 
yonr  health,  or  feel  happy  till  you  can  accomplish  this  great 
moral  victory  over  sin  and  self." 

"  I  cannot  do  it,"  I  responded,  turning  from  him,  and  burying 
my  face  in  the  bed-clothes  while  I  hardened  my  heart  against 

conviction.     "  No — not  if  I  go  to for  refusing.    I  feel  as  if 

I  were  already  there." 

"  No  wonder,"  returned  Harrison,  sternly.  "  Hatred  and  its 
concomitant  passion.  Revenge,  are  feelings  worthy  of  the 
dammed.  I  beseech  you,  Geoffrey,  by  the  dying  prayer  of  that 
blessed  Saviour,  whom  you  profess  to  believe,  try  to  rise 
superior  to  these  soul-debasing  passions  ;  and  not  only  forgive, 
but  learn  to  pity  the  authors  of  your  sufferings." 

"  I  have  done  my  best.    I  have  even  prayed  to  do  so." 

"  Not  in  a  right  spirit,  or  your  prayers  would  have  been 
heard  and  accepted.  What  makes  you  dread  death  ?  Speak 
the  truth  out  boldly.  Does  not  this  hatred  to  your  uncle  and 
cousin  stand  between  you  and  Heaven  ?" 

"  I  confess  it.     But,  Harrison,  could  you  forgive  them  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  Not  under  the  same  provocation  VK 

"  I  have  done  so  under  worse." 

"  God  in  Heaven  1 — how  is  that  possible  ?" 

"  It  is  true." 

"  I  won't  believe  it,"  said  I,  turning  angrily  upon  the  pillow. 
"  It  is  not  in  human  nature — and  few  can  rise  above  the  weak- 
ness of  their  kind." 

"  Listen  to  me,  Geoffrey,"  said  Harrison,  seating  himself  on 
the  side  of  the  bed.  "  You  wished  very  much,  at  one  time,  to 
learn  from  me  the  story  of  my  past  life.  I  did  not  think  it 
prudent  at  that  time,  and  while  under  Robert  Moncton's  roof, 
to  gratify  your  curiosity.  I  will  do  so  now,  in  the  hope 
of  beguiling  you  out  of  your  present  morbid  state  of  feeling, 
while  it  may  answer  the  purpose  of  teaching  you  a  good,  moral 
lesson,  which  I  trust  you  will  not  easily  forget. 


136 


THE     MONOTO  NS. 


"  Man's  happiness  depends  in  a  great  measure  on  the  sym- 
pathy of  others.  His  sufferings,  by  the  same  rule,  are  greatly 
alleviated  when  contrasted  with  the  miseries  of  his  neighbors, 
particularly,  if  their  sorrows  happen  to  exceed  his  own. 

"  Much  of  my  history  must  remain  in  the  shade,  because  time 
alone  can  unravel  the  mystery  by  which  I  am  surrounded  ;  and 
many  important  passages  in  my  life,  prudence  forces  me  to 
conceal.  But,  my  dear  fellow,  if  my  trials  and  sufferings  will  in 
any  way  reconcile  you  to  your  lot,  and  enable  you  to  bear  with 
fortitude  your  own,  your  friend  will  not  have  suffered  and  sinned 


in  vain 


V 


George  adjusted  my  pillows,  and  gave  me  my  medicine,  stirred 
the  fire  to  a  cheerful  blaze,  and  commenced  the  narrative  that 
for  so  many  months  I  had  so  ardently  longed  to  hear. 


HARRISON'S    STORY. 


"  Perhaps,  Geoffrey,  you  are  not  aware,  that  your  grand- 
father left  Sir  Robert  Moncton,  the  father  of  the  present 
Baronet,  guardian  and  trustee  to  his  two  sons,  until  they  arrived 
at  their  majority.  Edward  at  the  time  of  his  death,  being 
eighteen  years  of  age,  Robert  a  year  and  a  half  younger. 

**  What  tempted  Geoffrey  Moncton,  to  leave  his  sons  to  the 
guardianship  of  the  aristocratic  father,  from  whom  he  had 
parted  in  anger  many  years  before,  no  one  could  tell. 

"  The  Baronet  was  a  very  old  man,  and  was  much  reputed  iu 
his  day  ;  and  it  is  possible  that  the  dying  merchant  found  by 
experience,  that  he  could  place  more  reliance  on  the  honor  of  a 
gentleman,  than  in  a  man  of  business.  Or  it  might  be,  that  on 
his  death-bed,  he  repented  of  the  long  family  estrangement,  and 
left  his  sons  to  the  care  of  their  grandfather,  as  a  proof  that  all 
feelings  of  animosity  were  buried  in  his  grave.  .  u  .         , 

"  Sir  Robert's  eldest  son  had  been  dead  for  some  years,  and 
the  present  Baronet,  who  resided  with  his  grandfather,  was  just 


THE     MONCTONS. 


13t 


two  years  older  than  your  father,  and  for  several  years  the 
cousins  lived  very  amicably  beneath  the  same  roof — were  sent  to 
the  same  college  in  Oxford  to  finish  their  studies  and  mingle  in 
the  same  society.  .   , 

"  It  was  unfortunate  for  your  father,  who  had  too  little  ballast 
to  regulate  his  own  conduct,  that  he  contracted  the  most  ardent 
friendship  for  the  young  Alexander,  who  was  a  gay,  reckless, 
dissipated  fellow,  regarding  his  wealth  as  the  source  from  which 
he  derived  all  his  sensual  pleasures,  and  not  as  a  talent  com- 
mitted to  his  stewardship,  of  which  he  must  one  day  give  an 
account. 

"  Sir  Alexander's  early  career,  though  not  worse  than  that 
of  many  young  men  of  the  same  class,  was  unmarked  by  rny 
real  moral  worth.  His  elegant  person,  good  taste,  and  graceful 
manners,  won  for  him  the  esteem  and  affection  of  those  around 
him.  Frank,  courteous,  and  ever  ready  to  use  his  influence  with 
Sir  Robert,  in  mitigating  the  distress  of  his  poor  tenants,  he 
was  almost  adored  by  the  lower  classes,  who  looked  up  to  him 
as  to  a  God,  and  by  whom,  in  return,  they  were  treated  with  a 
degree  of  familiarity,  much  beneath  his  dignity  as  a  gentleman. 

"  From  this  extravagant,  kind-hearted,  and  popular  young 
man,  Edward  Moncton  contracted  those  habits  that  terminated 
in  his  ruin. 

"  Congeniality  of  mind  strongly  attached  the  cousins  to  each 
other  ;  and  I  am  certain  that  Sir  Alexander  truly  loved  the 
frank,  confiding,  careless  Edward  Moncton,  while  he  equally 
disliked  the  cold,  calculating,  money-getting  propensities  of  his 
brother  Robert.  Robert  possessed  a  disposition  not  likely  to 
forget  or  forgive  a  slight ;  and  he  deeply  resented  the  preference 
shown  to  his  brother  ;  and  his  hatred,  though  carefully  con- 
cealed, was  actively  employed  in  forming  schemes  of  vengeance. 

"  You  well  know,  how  Robert  Moncton  can  hate  ;  the  depths 
of  guile,  and  the  slow,  smooth  words,  with  which  he  can  conceal 
the  malignity  of  his  nature,  and  hide  the  purposes  of  his  heart. 


138 


THE    MO  NCTO  NS. 


He  had  a  game  too  to  play,  from  which  he  hoped  to  rise  np  the 
winner  ;  and  to  obtain  this  object  he  alternately  flattered  and 
deceived  his  unconscious  victims. 

"  The  particulars  of  your  father's  quarrel  with  Sir  Alexander 
I  never  knew  ;  it  took  place  just  before  the  young  men  left 
college  and  became  their  own  masters  ;  but  it  was  of  such  a 
nature  that  they  parted  in  anger,  never  to  meet  again. 

"  Shortly  after  this  quarrel  old  Sir  Robert  died  ;  and  Alex- 
ander Moncton  came  in  for  the  estates  and  title.  Your  father 
and  uncle,  both  being  now  of  age,  entered  upon  the  great  busi- 
ness of  life.  Your  father  resumed  the  business  bequeathed  to 
him  by  his  father,  and  your  uncle  entered  into  partnership  with 
the  firm,  of  which  he  now  stands  the  head  and  sole  proprietor. 

"  Several  years  passed  away.  The  only  intercourse  between 
the  families,  was  through  Sir  Alexander  and  his  cousin  Robert, 
who,  in  spite  of  the  young  Baronet's  aversion,  contrived  to  stick 
to  him  like  a  bur,  until  he  fairly  wriggled  himself  into  his 
favor. 

"  At  thirty,  Sir  Alexander  still  remained  a  bachelor,  and 
seemed  too  general  an  admirer  of  the  sex  to  resign  his  liberty 
to  any  particular  belle. 

"About  this  period  of  my  story  one  of  Sir  Alexander's 
game-keepers  was  shot  by  a  band  of  poachers,  who  infested  the 
neighborhood.  Richard  North,  the  husband  of  Dinah,  had 
made  himself  most  obnoxious  to  these  lawless  depredators,  and 
thus  fell  a  victim  to  his  over  zeal. 

"  Sir  Alexander  considered  himself  bound  in  honor  to  pro- 
vide for  the  widow  and  her  daughter  of  his  faithful  servant, 
particularly  as  the  former  had  been  left  without  any  means  of 
support.  Both  mother  and  daughter  were  received  into  his 
service — Dinah  as  housekeeper  at  the  Hall,  and  her  daughter 
Rachel  as  upper  chamber-maid.  '  ' 

"  Dinah,  at  that  period,  was  not  more  than  thirty-four  years 
of  age,  an^  for  a  person  of  her  class,  was  well  educated  and 


THE     MONOTONS 


189 


uncommonly  handsome.    I  see  you  smile,  Geo£frey,  but  such  was 
the  fact.  .  •...,.-,;-, 

"  llachel,  who  was  just  sixteen,  was  considered  a  perfect 
model  of  female  beauty,  by  all  the  young  fellows  who  kept 
Bachelors' Hall  with  Sir  Alexander.  •   > 

"  The  young  Baronet  fell  desperately  in  love  with  his  fair 
dependent,  and  the  girl  and  her  mother  entertained  hopes  that 
he  would  make  her  his  wife.  .       ,    )     .    .     :-.  •= 

"  Great  credit  is  due  to  Sir  Alexander,  that  he  never 
attempted  to  seduce  the  girl,  who  was  so  completely  in  his 
power.  Pride,  however,  hindered  him  from  making  her  Lady 
Moncton.  In  order  to  break  the  spell  that  bound  him  he  gave 
the  mother  a  pretty  cottage  on  the  estate,  and  a  few  acres  of 
land  rent  free,  and  went  up  to  London  to  forget,  amid  its  gay 
scenes,  the  bright  eyes  that  had  sorely  wounded  his  peace. 

"  Dinah  North  was  not  a  woman  likely  to  bear  with  indif- 
ence,  the  pangs  of  disappointed  ambition.  She  bitterly 
reproached  her  daughter  for  having  played  her  cards  so  ill, 
and  vowed  vengeance  on  the  proud  lord  of  the  manor,  in  curses 
loud  and  deep. 

"  Rachel's  character,  though  not  quite  so  harshly  defined,  pos- 
sessed too  much  of  the  malignant  and  vindictive  nature  of  the 
mother.  She  had  loved  Sir  Alexander  with  all  the  ardor  of  a 
first  youthful  attachment.  His  wealth  and  station  were  nothi  g 
to  her,  it  was  the  man  alone  she  prized.  Had  he  been  <. 
peasant,  she  would  have  loved  as  warmly  and  as  well.  Lost  to 
her  for  ever,  she  overlooked  the  great  pecuniary  favors  just 
conferred  upon  her  mother  and  herself,  and  only  lived  to  be 
revenged. 

"It  was  while  smarting  under  their  recent  disappointment  that 
these  women, were  sought  out  and  bribed  by  Robert  Moncton 
to  become  his  agents  in  a  deep-laid  conspiracy,  which  he  hoped 
to  carry  out  against  Sir  Alexander  and  his  family. 

•'  Robert  Moncton  was  still  unmarried,  and  Dmah  took  the 


140 


THE     MONOTONS 


charge  of  his  establishment,  being  greatly  enraged  with  her 
beautiful  daughter  for  making  a  run-away  match  with  Roger 
Mornington,  Sir  Alexander's  huntsman,  who  was  a  handsome 
man,  and  the  finest  rider  in  the  county  of  York, 

"After  an  absence  of  five  years.  Sir  Alexander  suddenly 
returned  to  Moncton  Park,  accompanied  by  a  young  and  lovely 
bride.  During  that  five  years,  a  great  change  had  taken  place 
in  the  young  Baronet,  who  returned  a  sincere  Christian  and  an 
altered  man. 

"  Devotedly  attached  to  the  virtuous  and  beautiful  lady  whom 
he  had  wisely  chosen  for  his  mate,  the  whole  study  of  his  life 
was  to  please  her,  and  keep  alive  the  tender  affections  of  the 
noble  heart  he  had  secured.  ,  -  .  .'< 

"  They  loved — as  few  modern  couples  love  ;  and  Sir  Alexan- 
der's friends— and  he  had  many — deeply  sympathized  in  his 
happiness.         r>=     ;    .  ,,      -   '  .,  .-  » 

"  Two  beings  alone  upon  his  estate  viewed  his  felicity  with 
jealous  and  malignant  eyes — two  beings,  who,  from  their  lowly 
and  dependent  situations,  you  would  have  thought  incapable  of 
marring  the  happiness  which  excited  their  envy.  Dinah  North 
had  been  reconciled  to  her  daughter,  and  they  occupied  the 
huntsman's  lodge,  a  beautiful  cottage  within  the  precincts  of  the 
park.  Dinah  had  secretly  vowed  vengeance  on  the  man  who, 
from  principle,  had  saved  her  child  from  the  splendid  shame  the 
avaricious  mother  coveted.  She  was  among  the  first  to  offer 
her  services,  and  those  of  her  daughter,  to  Lady  Moncton. 
The  pretty  young  wife  of  the  huntsman  attracted  the  attention 
of  the  lady  of  the  Hall,  and  she  employed  her  constantly  about 
her  person,  while  in  cases  of  sickness,  for  she  was  very  fragile, 
Dinah  officiated  as  nurse. 

"A  year  passed  away,  and  the  lady  of  the  manor  and  the  wife 
of  the  lowly  huntsman  were  both  looking  forward  with  anxious 
expectation  to  the  birth  of  their  first-born. 

"At  midnight,  on  the  10th  of  October,  1804,  an  heir  was 


THE     MONOTONS 


141 


given  to  the  proud  house  of  Moncton  ;  a  weak,  delicate,  puny 
babe,  who  nearly  cost  his  mother  her  life.  At  the  same  hour, 
in  the  humble  cottage  at  the  entrance  of  that  rich  domain,  your 
poor  friend,  George  Harrison  (or  Philip  Mornington,  which  is 
my  real  name)  was  launched  upon  the  stormy  ocean  of  life." 

At  this  part  of  Harrison's  narrative  I  fell  back  upon  my 
pillow  and  groaned  heavily. 

George  flew  to  my  assistance,  raising  me  in  his  arms  and 
sprinkling  my  face  with  water. 

"  Are  you  ill,  dear  Geoffrey  ?" 

"  Not  ill,  George,  but  grieved — sick  at  heart,  that  you  should 
be  grandson  to  that  dVeadful  old  hag." 

"  We  cannot  choose  our  parentage,"  said  George,  sorrow- 
fully. "  The  station  in  which  we  are  born,  constitutes  fate  in 
this  world  ;  it  is  the  only  thing  pertaining  to  man  over  which 
his  will  has  no  control.  We  can  destroy  our  own  lives,  but  our 
birth  is  entirely  in  the  hands  of  Providence.  Could  I  have 
ordered  it  otherwise,  I  certainly  should  have  chosen  a  different 
mother."  .    . ,    .;, .  .    '    - 

He  smiled  mournfully,  apd  bidding  me  to  lie  down  and  keep 
quiet,  resumed  his  tale.  •■ 

"  The  delicate  state  of  Lady  Moncton's  health  precluded  her 
from  nursing  her  child  ;  my  mother  was  chosen  as  substitute, 
and  the  weakly  infant  was  entrusted  to  her  care.  The  noble 
mother  was  delighted  with  the  attention  that  Rachel  bestowed 
upon  the  child,  and  loaded  her  with  presents.  As  to  me — I 
was  given  into  Dinah's  charge,  who  felt  small  remorse  in 
depriving  me  of  my  natural  food,  if  anything  in  the  shape  of 
money  was  to  be  gained  by  the  sacrifice.  The  physicians 
recommended  change  oi  air  for  Lady  Moncton's  health.  Sir 
Alexander  fixed  on  Italy  as* the  climate  most  likely  to  benefit 
his  ailing  and  beloved  wife.        «       .  ,<         ..       f- 

"My  mother  was  offered  large  sums  to  accompany  them, 
which    she    steadfastly  declined.    Lady  Moncton    wept   and 


142 


THE     MONCTONS. 


eutreated,  but  Racliel  Moriiington  was  resolute  in  her  refusal. 
'  No  money,'  she  said,  *  should  tempt  her  to  desert  her  husband 
_  aud  child,  much  as  she  wislied  to  oblige  Lady  Moncton.' 

"  The  infant  heir  of  Moncton  was  thriving  under  her  care,  and 
fihe  seemed  to  love  the  baby,  if  possible,  better  than  she  did  her 
own.  Si;-  Alexander  and  the  physician  persuaded  Lady  Mono- 
ton,  though  she  yielded  most  reluctantly  to  their  wishes,  to 
overcome  her  maternal  solicitude,  and  leave  her  child  with  his 
healthy  and  affectionate  nurse. 

"  She  parted  from  the  infant  with  many  tears,  bestowing  upon 
him  the  most  passionate  caresses,  and  pathetically  urging  Rachel 
Mornington  not  to  neglect  the  important  duties  she  had 
solemnly  promised  to  perform. 

"  Three  months  had  scarcely  elapsed  before  the  young  heir  of 
Moncton  was  consigned  to  the  family  vault ;  and  Sir  Alexander 
and  his  wife  were  duly  apprised  by  Robert  Moncton,  who  was 
solicitor  for  the  family ,«of  the  melancholy  event. 

"  That  this  child  did  not  come  fairly  by  his  death  I  have 
strong  reasons  for  suspecting,  from  various  conversations  which 
I  overheard  when  a  child,  pass  between  Robert  Moncton, 
Dinah  North,  and  my  mother. 

"  The  news  of  their  son's  death,  as  may  well  be  imagined,  was 
received  by  Sir  Alexander  and  Lady  Moncton  with  the  most 
poignant  grief;  and  six  years  elapsed  before  she  and  her 
husband  revisited  Moncton  Park. 

"My  mother  was  just  recovering  from  her  confinement  with 
a  lovely  little  girl — the  Alice,  to  whom  you  have  often  heard 
me  allude — when  Sir  Alexander  and  Lady  Moncton  arrived  at 
the  Hall.  They  brought  with  them  a  deUcate  and  beautiful 
infant  of  three  months  old.  ( 

"  I  can  well  remember  Lady  Moncton's  first  visit  to  the 
Lodge,  to  learn  from  my  mother's  own  lips  the  nature  of  the 
disease  which  had  consigned  her  son  to  his  early  grave. 

"  I  recollect  my  mother  telling  her  that  the  little  George  went 


THE     MONOTONS. 


143 


■^ 


to  bed  in  perfect  health,  and  died  in  a  fit  during  the  night, 

before  medical  aid  from  the  town  of could  bo  procured. 

She  shed  some  tears  while  she  said  this,  and  assured  Lady 
Monctou  that  the  baby's  death  had  occasioned  her  as  much 
grief  as  if  he  had  been  her  own.  That  sh .  .f paid  much  rather 
that  I  had  died  than  her  dear  nurse-child. 

"  I  remember,  as  I  leant  against  Dinah  North's  knees,  think- 
ing this  very  hard  of  my  mother,  and  wondering  why  she  should 
prefer  Lady  Moncton's  son  to  me.  But,  from  whatever  cause 
her  aversion  sprang,  she  certainly  never  had  any  maternal  regard 
for  me. 

"Lady  Moncton  drew  me  to  her,  and  with  her  sweet,  fair 
face  bathed  in  tears,  told  my  mother  that  I  was  a  beautiful  boy 
— that  her  darling  would  have  been  just  my  age  and  size,  and 
that  she  could  not  help  envying  her  her  child.  She  patted  my 
curly  head,  and  kissed  me  repeatedly,  and  said  that  I  must 
come  often  to  the  Hall  and  see  her,  and  she  would  give  me 
pretty  toys  and  teach  me  to  read. 

"  Ah,  how  I  loved  her !  Her  kind,  gentle  voice  was  the  first 
music  I  ever  heard.  How  I  loved  to  sit  at  her  feet  when  she 
came  to  the  cottage,  and  look  up  into  her  pale,  calm  face ; 
and  when  she  stooped  down  to  kiss  me,  and  her  glossy  ringlets 
mingled  with  mine,  I  would  fling  my  arms  about  her  slender 
neck,  and  whisper  in  a  voice  too  low  for  my  stern  mother  and 
Dinah  to  hear  : — 

" '  I  love  you  a  thousand,  thousand  times  better  than  any- 
thing else  in  the  world.  Oh,  how  I  w'sh  I  were  your  own  little 
boy.' 

"Then  the  bright  tears  would  flow  fast  down  her  marble 
cheeks,  and  she  would  sigh  so  deeply,  as  she  returned  with 
*  interest  my  childish  passionate  caresses. 

"  Ah,  Geoffrey,  my  childish  heart  spoke  the  truth — I  loved 
that  high-born,  noble  woman  better  than  I  have  since  loved 
aught  in  this  cold,  bad  world — at  least,  my  affection  for  her  was 
of  a  purer,  holier  character. 


% 


^ 


144 


THE    MO  NOTO  N  S. 


"  My  mother  was  taken  home  to  the  Hall,  to  act  as  wet  nurse 
to  little  Margaret ;  and  I  remained  at  the  cottage  with  my 
harsh,  cross  grandmother,  who  beat  me  without  the  slightest 
remorse  for  the  most  trifling  faults,  often  cursing  and  wishing 
me  dead,  in  the  most  malignant  manner. 

"My  father,  whom  I  seldom  saw,  for  his  occupation  took 
him  often  from  home,  which  was  rendered  too  hot  for  comfort, 
by  the  temper  of  his  mother-in-law,  was  invariably  kind  to  me. 
When  he  came  in  from  the  stables  he  would  tell  me  funny 
stories,  and  sing  me  jolly  hunting  songs  ;  '^nd  what  I  liked  still 
better,  would  give  me  a  ride  before  him  on  the  fine  hunters  he 
had  under  his  care  ;  promising  that  when  I  was  old  enough,  I 
should  take  them  airing  round  the  park,  instead  of  him. 

"  My  poor  father  1  I  can  see  him  before  me  now,  with  his 
frank,  good-natured  face,  and  laughing  blue  eyes  ;  his  stalwart 
figure,  arrayed  in  his  green  velvet  hunting  coat,  buckskin 
breeches  and  top  boots  ;  and  the  leather  cap,  round  which  his 
nut-brown  hair  clustered  in  thick  curls  ;  and  which  he  wore  so 
jauntily  on  one  side  of  his  head.  Roger  Mornington  was  quite 
a  dandy  in  his  way,  and  had  belonged  to  a  good  old  stock  ; 
but  his  father  ran  away  when  a  boy,  and  went  to  sea,  and  dis- 
graced his  aristocratic  friends  ;  and  Roger  used  to  say,  that  he 
had  all  the  gentlemanly  propensities,  minus  the  cash. 

"  He  doated  upon  me.  '  His  dear  little  jockey  1'  as  he  used 
to  call  me  ;  and  I  always  ran  out  to  meet  him  when  he  came 
home,  with  loud  shouts  of  joy.  But  there  came  a  night,  when 
Roger  Mornington  did  not  return  ;  and  several  days  passed 
away,  and  he  was  at  length  found  dead  in  a  lonely  part  of  the 
park.  The  high-spirited  horse  he  rode,  had  thrown  him,  and  his 
neck  was  broken  by  the  fall — and  the  horse  not  returning  to  the 
stables,  but  making  off  to  the  high  road,  no  alarm  had  been 
excited  at  the  absence  of  his  rider. 

"  My  mother  was  sincerely  grieved  for  his  death  ;  he  was  a 
kind,  indulgent  husband  to  her  ;  and  it  was  the  first  severe  pang 
of  sorcow  that  my  young  heart  had  ever  known. 


THE     M  0  N  C  T  0  N  S  . 


U5 


U  ' 


day  after  hi.i  funeral,  I  was  sitting  crying  beside  tho 
iing  my  untasted  breakfast  on  my  knee, 
n't  take  on  so,  t.iild,'  said  my  mother,  wiping  the  tears 
from  her  own  eyes.     *  All  the  tears  in  tho  world  won't  bring 
back  the  dead.' 

"  '  And  will  dear  daddy  never  come  home  again  ?'  I  sobbed. 
'  Ah,  I  have  no  one  to  love  me  now,  but  the  dear  good  lady  up 
at  the  Hall  1' 

"  '  Don't  I  love  you,  Philip  V 

"  '  No  !'  I  replied,  sorrowfully,  "  you  don't  love  mo,  and  you 
never  did.** 

"  *  How  do  you  know  that  V 

"  '  Because  you  never  kiss  me,  and  take  me  up  in  your  lap,  as 
Lady  Moncton  does,  and  look  at  me  with  kind  eyes,  and  call  me 
your  dear  boy.  No,  no,  when  I  come  for  you  to  love  me,  you 
push  me  away,  and  cry  angrily,  '  Get  away,  you  little  pest  1 
don't  trouble  me  I'  and  grandmother  is  always  cui*sing  me,  and 
wisliing  me  dead.     Do  you  call  that  love  ?' 

"  I  never  shall  forget  the  ghastly  smile  that  played  around 
her  beautiful  stern  mouth,  as  she  said  unconsciously,  aloud  to 
herself : 

"  '  It  is  not  the  child,  but  the  voice  of  God,  that  speaks 
through  him.     How  can  I  expect  him  to  love  me  V 

"  How  I  wondered  what  she  meant.  Tor  years  that  myste- 
rious sentence  haunted  my  dreams. 

"  I  was  soon  called  to  endure  a  heavier  grief.  Lady  Monc- 
ton's  health  daily  declined.  She  grew  worse — was  no  longer 
able  to  go  out  in  the  carriage,  and  the  family  physician  went 
past  our  house  many  times  during  the  day,  on  his  way  to  the 
HaJl. 

"  Old  Dinah  and  my  mother  were  constantly  absent  attend- 
ing upon  the  sick  lady,  and  I  was  left  in  charge  of  a  poor  woman 
who  came  over  to  the  cottage  to  clean  the  house,  and  take  care 
of  httle  Alice,  while  my  mother  was  away.  ^ 


146 


THE    M0NCT0N8. 


II 


r- 


Ir 


V 


;> 


One  day  my  mother  came  hastily  in.  She  was  flushed  with 
walking  fast,  and  seetned  mueii  agitated.  She  seized  upon  luo, 
washed  my  face  and  liands,  and  began  dressing  me  in  my  Sunday 
suit. 

"  '  A  strange  whim  this,  in  a  dying  woman/  she  said,  to  the 
neighbor,  '  to  have  such  a  craze  for  seeing  other  people's 
children.     Giving  all  this  trouble  for  nothing.' 

"  After  a  good  deal  of  pushing  and  shaking  she  dragged  mo 
off  with  her  to  the  Hall,  and  I  was  introduced  into  the  solemn 
Btate  chamber,  where  my  kind  and  uoble  friend  was  calmly 
breathing  her  last. 

"  Ah,  Geoffrey,  how  well  I  can  recall  that  parting  hour,  and 
the  deep  impression  it  made  on  my  mind.  There,  beneath  that 
sumptuous  canopy,  lay  the  young,  the  beautiful — still  beautiful 
in  death,  with  Heaven's  own  smile  lighted  upon  her  pale  serene 
face.  God  had  set  his  holy  seal  upon  her  brow.  The  Merciful, 
who  delighteth  in  mercy,  had  marked  her  for  his  own. 

"  Ah,  what  a  fearful  contrast  to  that  angelic  face  was  the  dark 
fierce  countenance  of  Dinah  Korth,  scowling  down  upon  the 
expiring  saint,  and  holding  in  her  arms  the  sinless  babe  of  that 
sweet  mother. 

"  Rachel  Mornington's  proud  handsome  features  wore  their 
usual  stern  expression,  but  her  face  was  very  pale,  and  her  lips 
firmly  compressed.  She  held,  or  rather  grasped  me  by  the  hand, 
as  she  led  me  up  to  the  bed. 

"  '  Is  that  my  little  Philip  ?'  said  the  dying  woman  in  her  usual 
sweet  tones.  But  the  voice  was  so  enfeebled  by  disease  as  to  be 
only  just  audible." 

" '  It  is  my  son,  my  lady,'  replied  Rachel,  and  her  voice  slightly 
faltered, 

" '  Wkat  says  my  love  V  asked  Sir  Alexander,  raising  his  head 
fromjJie  bed-clothes  in  which  bis  face  had  been  buried  to  conceal 
his  tears. 

"  *  Lift  the  boy  up  to  me,  dearest  Alick,  that  I  my  kiss  him 
once  more  before  I  die.' 


♦• 


T  n  K     M  O  N  C  T  O  N  B  . 


in 


"  Sir  Alexander  lifted  mo  into  tho  bed  beside  her,  and  raised 
hor  up  f^ently  witli  his  other  arm,  so  that  both  she  and  I  were 
encircled  in  h'm  embrace.  My  young  heart  beat  audibly.  I 
heard  Lady  Moncton  whisper  to  her  husband. 

"  '  Alexander,  he  is  your  child.  Ah,  do  not  deny  it  now.  You 
know,  I  love  you  too  well  to  be  jealous  of  you.  Just  toll  mo 
the  honest  truth  V 

"  A  crimson  glow  spread  over  her  husband's  face,  as,  in  the  same 
harried  whisper,  he  replied,  *  Dearest  Emilia,  the  likeness  is 
purely  accidental.  I  pledge  to  you  my  solemn  word,  that  he 
is  not  my  son.' 

The  poor  lady  looked  doubtingly  in  his  face.  I  saw,  a  bitter 
Bcornful  smile  pass  over  the  rigid  features  of  my  mother  ;  whilst 
I,  foolish  child,  was  flattered  with  the  presumption  that  I  might 
possibly  be  Sir  Alexander's  son. 

"  '  Do  not  cry  Philip,  my  darling  boy  1'  said  Lady  Moncton, 
holding  me  close  to  her  breast.  '  Sir  Alexander  will  be  a  father 
to  you  for  my  sake.  I  am  very  happy  my  dear  child  ;  I  am  going 
to  Heaven,  where  my  own  sweet  baby  went  before  mo  ;  I  shall 
meet  him  there.  Be  a  good  boy,  and  love  your  mother,  and 
your  pretty  little  sister  ;  and  above  all,  my  dear  child,  love  your 
Saviour,  who  can  lead  you  through  tl  aark  valley  of  the  shadow 
of  death,  as  gently  as  he  is  now  ]pn»ling  me.  Should  you  live  to 
be  a  man,'  she  added  faintly,  'rt^mtiuber  this  hour,  and  the  lady 
who  loved  and  adopted  you  as  her  son.' 

"Then  turning  slowly  towards  her  husband,  she  wound  her  thin 
transparent  hands  about  his  neck  ;  breathed  a  few  words  of  love 
in  his  ear,  unheard  by  anght  save  him  and  me  ;  and  reclining 
her  meek  pale  face  upon  his  manly  breast,  expired  withou.  a 
struggle. 

"  A  deep  solemn  pause  succeeded.  I  was  too  awestruck  to 
weep.  The  deep  convulsive  sobs  that  burst  from  the  heart  of 
the  bereaved  husband  warned  intruders  to  retire.  My  mother 
led  me  from  the  chamber  of  death,  and  we  took  our  way  in 


.:.-*i 

->•:?%: 
"•'/•- 


148 


rU  E     MON  CTO  N8. 


silence  across  the  park  ;  the  solemn  toll  of  the  death-bell  floated 
through  its  beautiful  glades. 

"  '  Mother,'  I  said  ;  clinging  to  her  dress.     'What  is  that V 

" '  The  voice  of  death,  Philip.  Did  you  not  hear  that  bell 
toll  for  your  father.  It  will  one  day  toll  for  me—for  you— for 
all.' 

"  '  How  I  wish,  mother,  that  that  day  would  soon  come.' 

"  '  Silly  boy  f    Do  you  wisli  us  all  dead  ?' 

"  '  Not  you  mother,  nor  granny.  You  may  both  live  as  long  as 
you  like.  But  when  it  tolls  for  me,  I  shall  be  in  Heaven  with 
dear  Lady  Moncton.' 

"Rachel  started,  stopped  suddenly,  and  fixed  upon  me  a 
mournful  gaze — the  only  glance  of  tenderness  that  ever  beamed 
upon  me  from  those  brilliant,  stern  eyes. 

"  '  Poor  child — you  may  have  your  wish  gratified  only  too 
soon.  Did  Robert  Moncton  or  Dinah  North  know  of  your 
existence,  the  green  sod  would  not  lie  long  unpiled  upon  your 
head.  You  think  I  do  not  love  you,  Philip !'  she  cried,  passion- 
ately— '  I  do,  I  do,  my  poor  child.  I  have  saved  your  life, 
though  you  think  me  so  cross  and  stern.' 

"She  knelt  down  beside  me  on  the  grass,  flung  her  arms 
round  me,  and  pressed  me  convulsively  to  her  bosom,  whilst  big 
bright  tears  fell  fast  over  my  wondering  counteuaHce. 

"'Mother,'  I  sobbed,  *I  do  love  you  sometimes — always, 
when  you  speak  kindly  to  me,  as  you  do  now  ;  and  I  love  dear 
liblle  Alice — ah,  so  much  !  my  heart  is  full  of  love — I  cannot 
tell  you  how  much.' 

"  Rachel  redoubled  her  weeping — a  step  sounded  behind  us — 
she  sprang  to  her  feet,  as  Dinah  North,  with  the  little  Margaret 
Moncton  in  her  arms,  joined  us. 

"  '  What  are  you  doing  there,  Rachel  ?'  growled  forth  the 
hard-hearted  woman.  '  Are  you  saying  your  prayers,  or  admir- 
ing the  beauty  of  your  son.  Han[>;  the  boy  1  though  he  is  your 
child,  I  never  can  feel  the  least  interest  in  him  I' 


k 


THE     MONCTONS 


149 


I 


iv 


"  '  Is  that  his  fault  or  yours  V  said  my  mother,  coldly. 

"  '  Ah,  mine,  of  course,'  returned  Dinah,  bitterly.  *  We  are 
not  accountable  for  our  likes  or  dislikes.     I  hate  the  boy  1' 

"  I  looked  at  her  with  defiance  in  my  eyes,  and  she  answered 
my  look  with  a  sharp  blow  on  the  cheek.  *  Don't  look  at  me, 
young  dog,  in  that  insolent  way.  I  have  tamed  prouder  spirits 
than  yours,  aad  I'll  tame  yours  yet.' 

"  My  mother  gave  her  an  angry  glance,  but  said  nothing,  and 
we  walked  slowly  on.     At  last  Dinah  turned  to  her  and  said  : 

"  *  Rachel,  this  should  be  a  proud  and  joyful  day  to  you.' 

"  '  In  what  respect,  mother  V 

"  '  Your  rival's  dead  ;  you  have  gained  your  liberty,  and  Sir 
Alexander  is  free  to  choose  another  wife.  Do  you  understand 
me  now  ?' 

"  '  Perfectly  ;  but  that  dream  is  past,'  said  my  mother, 
mournfully.  '  Sir  Alexander  loved  that  dead  angel  too  well,  to 
place  a  woman  of  my  low  degree  in  her  place.  If  he  did  not 
unite  his  destiny  to  mine  when  I  was  young  and  beautiful,  and 
he  in  the  romance  of  life,  don't  flatter  yourself  into  the  belief 
that  he  will  do  it  now.     I  know  human  nature  better.' 

"  '  You  don't  know  your  own  power,'  said  Dinah  ;  *  beauty  is 
stronger  than  rank  and  fortune,  and  you  are  still  handsome 
enough  to  do  a  deal  of  mischief  among  the  men,  if  you  only  set 
about  it  in  the  right  way.' 

"  '  Peace,  mother  I  I  need  none  of  your  teaching.  I  learned 
to  love  Mornington,  and  ceased  to  love  Sir  Alexander.  Nay,  I 
am  really  sorry  for  tlio  death  of  poor  Lady  Moncton,  and  should 
despise  her  husband  if  he  could  forget  her  for  one  like  me.' 

"  '  Fool  !  idiot  !'  exclaimed  Dinah,  in  a  tone  of  exasperation. 
'  You  have  ever  stood  in  the  way  of  your  own  fortune.  Had 
you  not  been  so  over  squeamish  you  might  have  changed  the 
children,  and  made  your  own  son  the  heir  of  the  Moncton. 
Had  I  been  at  home,  this  surely  would  have  been  done.  This 
was  all  the  good  I  got  by  leaving  you  to  the  guidance  of  a 
handsome,  good-natured  fool  like  Mornington.' 


Du-  , 


160 


THE     MONCTONS 


'* '  Mother,  speak  more  respectfully  of  the  dead/  said  Rachel. 
*  He  was  good,  at  any  rate,  which  we  are  not.  It  was  my 
intention  to  have  changed  the  children,  but  God  ordered  it 
otherwise,'  she  continued,  with  a  convulsive  laugh.  *  However, 
I  have  had  my  revenge,  but  it  has  cost  me  many  a  blighting 
thought.' 

"  *  I  don't  understand  you,'  said  Dinah,  drawing  close  up 
before  us,  and  fixing  a  keen  look  of  inquiry  on  her  daughter. 

"  '  N"or  do  I  mean  that  you  should,'  coldly  retorted  Rachel. 
'  My  secret  is  worth  keeping.  You  will  know  it  one  day  too 
soon.' 

"  We  had  now  reached  home,  and  the  presence  of  the  strange 
woman  put  an  end  to  this  mysterious  conversation.  Though  only 
a  boy  of  eight  years  old,  it  struck  me  as  so  remarkable,  that  I 
never  could  forget  it  ;  and  now,  when  years  have  gone  over  me, 
I  can  distinctly  recall  every  word  and  look  that  passed  between 
those  sinful  women.  Alas,  that  one  should  have  been  so  near 
to  me. 

"But  you  are  sleepy,  Geoffrey.  The  rest  of  my  mournful  iiis- 
tory  will  help  to  wile  away  the  tedium  Of  the  long  to-morrow." 


-*►— 


CHAPTERXVI. 

GEORGE    HARRISON     CONTINUES  HIS  HISTORY.  ' 

"The  sorrows  of  my  childhood  were  great,"  continued 
George,  "  but  still  they  were  counterbalanced  by  many  joys. 
In  spite  of  the  disadvantages  under  which  I  labored,  my  gay, 
elastic  spirit  surmounted  them  all.  •'***•' 

"Naturally  fearless  and  fond  of  adventure,  I  never  shrunk 
from  difficulties,  but  felt  a  chivalrous  pride  in  endeavoring  to 
overcome  them.    If  I  could  not  readily  do  this  at  the  moment, 


■«r^- 


% 


THE     MONCTONS. 


151 


V 


k 


I  lived  on  in  the  hope  that  the  day  would  arrive  when  by  perse- 
verance and  energy,  I  should  ultimately  conquer. 

"  I  have  lived  to  prove  that  of  which  I  early  felt  a  proud 
conviction  ;  t^*».t  it  is  no  easy  matter  for  a  wicked  person,  let 
him  be  ever  so  clever  and  cunning,  to  subdue  a  strong  mind,  that 
dares  to  be  true  to  itself. 

"  Dinah  North  felt  my  superiority  even  as  a  child,  and  the 
mortifying  consciousness  increased  her  hatred.  She  feared  the 
lofty  spirit  of  the  boy  that  her  tyrannical  temper  could  not 
tame  ;  who  laughed  at  her  threats,  and  defied  her  malice,  and 
who,  when  freed  from  her  control,  enjoyed  the  sweets  of  liberty 
in  a  tenfold  degree. 

"  Sir  Alexander  put  me  to  a  school  in  the  neighborhood, 
where  I  learned  the  first  rudiments  of  my  mother  tongue,  writ- 
ing, reading,  and  simple  arithmetic. 

"The  school  closp<)  at  half-past  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon; 
when  I  returned  t<  Lodge,  for  so  the  cottage  was  called  in 
which  we  resided,  a  ..c.  ,^  nich  stood  just  within  the  park  at  the  head 
of  the  noble  avenue  of  old  oaks  and  elms  that  led  to  the  Hall. 

"Two  of  the  loveliest,  sweetest  children  nature  ever  formed  were 
always  at  the  Park  gates  watching  for  ray  coming,  when  they  ran 
to  meet  me  with  exclamations  of  delight,  and  we  wandered  forth 
hand  in  hand  to  look  for  wild  fruit  and  flowers  among  the  bosky 
dells  and  romantic  uplands  of  that  enchanting  spot. 

"  Alice  Mornington  and  Margaretta  Moncton  were  nearly 
the  same  age,  born  at  least  within  three  months  of  each  other, 
and  were  six  years  younger  than  I. 

"Strikingly  different  in  their  complexion,  appearance  and 
disposition,  the  two  little  girls  formed  a  beautiful  contrast  to 
each  other. 

"  Alice  was  exquisitely  fair,  with  large,  brilliant,  blue  eyes, 
like  my  poor  mother's,  and  long  silken  ringlets  of  sunny  hair  which 
curled  naturally  upon  her  snow-white  shoulders.  She  was  tall 
and  stately  for  her  age,  and  might  have  been  a  princess,  for  the 


h 


# 


152 


THE     MONOTONS. 


noble  dignity   of  her  carriage  would  not  have  disgraced  a 
court. 

"  She  was  all  life  and  spirit.  The  first  in  every  sport,  the 
last  to  yield  to  fatigue  or  satiety.  Her  passions  were  warm  and 
headstrong  ;  her  temper  irritable  ;  her  affections  intense  and 
constant,  and  her  manners  so  frank  and  winning  that  while  con- 
scious that  she  had  a  thousand  faul^  you  could  but  admire  and 
love  her*. 

"  A  stranger  might  have  thought  her  capricious,  but  her 
love  of  variety  arose  more  from  the  exuberance  of  her  fancy 
than  from  any  love  of  change.  She  was  a  fair  and  happy  child, 
the  idol  of  her  fond  brother's  heart,  till  one  baneful  passion 
marred  what  God  and  nature  made  so  beautiful. 

"  Margaret  Moncton,  outwardly,  was  less  gifted  than  Alice 
Mornington,  but  she  far  surpassed  her  foster-sister  in  mental 
endowments.  Her  stature  was  small,  almost  diminutive.  Her 
features  neither  regular  nor  handsome  except  the  dark  eyes,  the 
beauty  of  which  I  think  I  never  saw  surpassed. 

"  Her  complexion  was  pure  but  very  pale,  and  her  lofty, 
thoughtful  brow  wore  a  serious  expression  from  infancy.  In 
our  wildest  revels  on  the  green  sward,  you  seldom  heard  Mar- 
garet laugh  J  but  when  pleased,  she  had  a  most  bewitching 
smile,  which  lighted  up  her  calm  countenance  till  every  feature 
beamed  with  ai,  inexpressible  grace.  Her  face  was  the  mirror 
of  purity  and  truth,  and  you  felt,  whilst  looking  upon  it,  that  it 
was  impossible  for  Margaret  to  deceive. 

"  How  could  I  be  unhappy,  while  I  bad  these  two  beautiful 
children  for  my  daily  companions,  and  the  most  charming  rural 
scenery  at  my  immediate  command  ? 

"  Sir  Alexander  came  every  day  to  the  Lodge  to  see  his  child, 
and  always  lavished  upon  me  the  most  flattering  marks  jf  his 
favor. 

"  His  manner  to  my  mother  was,  at  first,  shy  and  reserved. 
This  wore  off  by  degrees,  and  before  two  years  had  expired, 


. 


THE     M  0  N  C  T  0  N  S 


153 


% 


V 


from  the  death  of  his  wife,  his  visits  became  so  constant,  and  hia 
attentions  so  raarkod,  that  Dinah  once  more  began  to  entertaia 
hopes  that  her  ambitious  schemes  for  her  daughter  might  yet  be 
realized. 

"  These  hopes  were  only  frustrated  by  the  sudden  death  of  the 
object  for  whom  they  were  cherished.  ... 

"  My  mother,  for  some  weeks,  had  complained  of  an  acute 
pain  in  her  left  side,  just  under  her  breast,  and  the  medicines 
she  procured  from  the  doctor  afforded  her  no  relief. 

"She  grew  nervous  and  apprehensive  of  the  consequences, 
but  as  her  personal  appearance  was  not  at  all  injured  by  hjr 
complaint,  Dinah  ridiculed  her  fears. 

"  '  You  may  laugh  as  you  please,  mother,'  she  said,  the  very 
day  before  she  died,  '  but  I  feel  that  this  pain  will  be  the  death 
of  me — and  I  so  unfit  to  die,'  she  added,  with  a  deep  sigh. 

"  '  Nonsense  1'  returned  Dinah,  '  you  will  wear  your  wedding 
clothes  a  second  time,  before  we  put  on  your  shroud.' 

"  My  mother  only  answered  with  another  deep-drawn  sigh. 
She  passed  a  sleepless  night — the  doctor  was  sent  for  in  the 
morning,  gave  her  a  composing  draught,  and  told  her  to  make 
her  mind  easy,  for  she  had  nothing  to  fear. 

"  I  always  slept  in  the  same  bed  with  my  mother.  That 
night  I  had  a  bad  cold  and  could  not  sleep  ;  but  knowing  that 
she  was  not  well,  I  lay  quite  still,  fearing  to  disturb  her.  She 
slept  well  during  the  early  part  of  the  night.  The  clock  had 
just  struck  twelve  when  she  rose  up  in  the  bed,  and  called 
Dinah  to  come  to  her  quickly.  Her  voice  sounded  hollow  and 
tremulous. 

"  'What  ails  you,  Rachel  V  grumbled  the  hard  woman  ;  'dis- 
turbing a  body  at  this  hour  of  the  night.' 

"  'Be  it,  night  or  morning,'  said  ray  mother,  '  I  am  dying,  and 
this  hour  will  be  my  last.' 

"  *  Then,  in  the  name  of  God  !  send  for  the  doctor.' 

"  *  It  is  too  lato  now.     He  can  do  me  no  good — I  am  going 


■  ■Jfilai'; 


154 


THE     M0NCT0N8. 


fast  ,  bat  there  is  lomething  on  my  mind,  mother,  which  I  mast 
tell  you  before  I  go.  Sit  down  beside  me  on  the  bed,  whilst  I 
have  strength  left  to  do  it,  and  swear  to  me,  mother,  that 
yoa  will  not  abuse  the  confidence  I  am  about  to  repose  in 
you.' 

"Dinah  nodded  assent.  -  . 

'* '  That  will  not  do.  I  must  have  your  solemn  word — ^your 
oathr 

"  '  What  good  will  that  do,  Rachel  ?  no  oath  can  bind  me — 
I  believe  in  no  God,  and  fear  no  devil  1' 

"This  confession  was  accompanied  by  a  hideous,  cackling 
laugh.     Rachel  groaned  aloud.  '   ■■' 

"  '  Oh,  mother  I  there  is  a  God — an  avenging  God  1  Could 
you  feel  what  I  now  fetjl,  and  see  what  I  now  see,  like  the 
devils,  you  would  believe  and  tremble.  You  will  know  it  one 
day,  and  like  me,  find  out  that  repentance  comes  too  late.  I 
will,  however,  tell  the  plain  truth,  and  your  diabolical  policy, 
will,  doubtless,  suggest  the  use  which  may  be  made  of  such  an 
important  secret.'  ft. 

"  There  was  a  long  pause,  after  which  some  sentences  passed 
between  them,  in  such  a  low  voice,  that  I  could  not  distinctly 
hear  them ;  at  last  I  heard  my  mother  say, 

"  *  You  never  saw  these  children,  or  you  would  not  wonder 
that  my  heart  so  clave  to  that  fair  babe.  You  thought  that  I 
accepted  Robert  Moncton's  bribe,  and  put  the  other  child  out 
of  the  way.'  i  -n- 

"  *  And  did  you  not  V  cried  the  eager  old  woman,  breathless 
with  curiosity.  .      '     ". 

"  '  I  took  the  bribe.  But  the  child  died  a  natural  death,  and 
I  was  saved  the  commission  of  a  frightful  crime,  which  you  and 
your  master  were  constantly  writing  to  me,  to  urge  me  to 
commit.     Now,  listen,  mother.'  ^^  "•■      .-•    'v.u    . 

"  "What  she  said  was  in  tones  so  low,  that,  though  I  strained 
every  nerve  to  listen,  as  I  should  have  done,  had  it, been  a 


4 

'i^ 


1 


THE    MONGTONS. 


155 


ghost  story,  or  any  tale  of  horror,  the  beating  of  my  own  hear6 
frustrated  all  my  endeavors,  ...;..    ,i  »j 

"  Rachel's  communication  appeared  to  astonish  her  mother. 
Her  dark,  wrinkled  brows  contracted  until  not  a  particle  of  the 
eyes  were  visible,  and  she  sat  for  a  long  while  in  deep  thought, 
rocking  herself  to  and  fro  on  the  bed,  whilst  the  dying  woman 
regarded  her  with  expanded  eyes  and  raised  hands,  locked 
tightly  together.     At  last  she  spokt). 

"  *  Dinah  !  make  no  ill  use  of  my  confidence,  or  there  will  come 
a  day  of  vengeance  for  both  yon  and  me.  What  shall  we  gain 
by  being  tools  in  the  hands  of  a  wicked  man  like  Robert  Monc- 
ton.  Why  should  we  sell  our  souls  for  naught,  to  do  his  dirty 
work.* 

"  *  Not  to  serve  him  will  I  do  aught  to  injure  the  child.  No, 
no.  Dinah  North  is  not  such  a  fool.  If  I  do  it  to  gratify  my 
own  revenge,  that's  another  thing.  I  have  this  bad,  bold 
Robert  in  my  power.  This  secret  will  be  a  fortune  in  itself — 
will  extort  from  his  mean,  avaricious  soul,  a  portion  of  his  ill- 
gotten  wealth.  Ha,  my  child  I  you  did  well  and  wisely,  and 
may  die  in  peace,  without  the  stain  of  blood  upon  your  soul.' 

"  Rachel  shook  her  head  despondingly. 

"  *  There  is  no  peace,  saith  my  God,  for  the  wicked.  My 
soul  consented  to  the  crime,  and  whilst  the  thought  was  upper- 
most in  my  heart,  the  bolt  of  the  Almighty  smote  me,  and  my 
resolution  wavered  ;  but,  the  guilt,  at  this  moment,  appears  to 
me  the  same.  It  is  a  dreadful  thing  to  die  without  hope. 
Where  is  Alice  V 

"  '  Sleeping.     Shall  I  bring  her  to  you  V 

" '  Let  her  sleep.  I  feel  sleepy,  too.  Smooth  my  pillow, 
mother.  Give  me  a  little  water.  I  feel  easy  now.  Perhaps, 
I  shall  awake  in  the  morning  better.' 

"  The  pillows  were  arranged — the  draught  given  ;  but  tho 
sleeper  never  awoke  again. 

"  Her  mysterious  communications,  which  only  came  by  halves 


m 


156 


THE      »l  0  N  C  T  O  N  S 


to  my  ears,  tilled  my  miud  with  vague  conjectures,  aud  I  cannot 
help  thiukinff,  to  this  hour,  that  the  young  heir  of  Moucton 
came  to  an  untimely  death,  and  she  blamed  herself  so  bitterly 
for  not  having  made  me  supply  his  placi. 

"  Stern  as  my  mother  had  been  during  her  life,  her  death  was 
a  severe  blow  to  us  all,  especially  to  A'"  -e  and  me  ;  as  it 
removed  from  our  humble  home  an  object  most  dear  to  us  both, 
the  little  lady  of  the  manor,  to  whom  we  had  ever  given  the 
endearing  name  of  sister. 

-  "  After  Margaret  left  us,  how  dull  did  all  our  pastimes  appear. 
Alice  and  I  wandered  sadly  and  silently  among  our  old  haunts; 
the  song  of  the  birds  cheered  us  no  longer  ;  the  flowers  seemed 
less  fair  ;  the  murmur  of  the  willow-crowned  brook  less  musical ; 
the  presiding  genius  of  the  place  had  vanished  ;  we  felt  that 
we  were  alone. 

**  I  had  now  reached  my  fourteenth  year,  and  Sir  Alexander, 
true  to  the  promise  made  to  his  wife,  sent  me  to  an  excellent 
school  in  the  city  ot  York.  Here  I  made  such  good  use  of  mj 
time,  that  before  three  years  had  elapsed  I  was  second  boy  in 
the  head  class,  and  had  won  the  respect  of  the  master  and  ush- 
ers. My  munificent  patron  was  greatly  pleased  with  the  pro- 
gress I  had  made,  and  hinted  at  sending  me  to  college,  if  I  con- 
tinued to  deserve  his  good  opinion. 

"  Ah,  Geoffrey  !  those  were  halcyon  days,  when  I  returned 
to  spend  the  vacations  at  the  Lodge,  and  found  myself  ever  a 
welcome  visitor  at  the  Hall. 

'*  With  u  proud  heart  I  recounted  to  Sir  Alexander,  all  my 
boyish  triumphs  at  school,  and  the  good  baronet  listened  to  my 
enthusiastic  details  with  the  most  intense  interest,  and  fought 
all  his  juvenile  battles  over  again,  with  boyish  ardor,  to  the 
infinite  delight  of  our  admiring  audience,  Ivjargaret  and  Alice. 
The  latter  spent  most  of  her  time  with  Miss  Moucton,  who  was 
so  much  attached  to  her  foster-sister,  and  shed  so  many  tears 
at  parting  from  her,  that  Sir  Alexander  yielded  to  her  earnest 


4' 


*. 


ir..   % 


THE     MONCTONS. 


lot 


request  for  Alice  to  remain  with  her,  and  the  young  heiress  and 
the  huntsman's  blooming  daughter  were  seUiom  apart  Miss 
Moncton's  governess,  an  amiable  and  highly  acco:  ;plished 
woman,  took  as  much  pains  in  teaching  AUco  as  she  did  in 
superintending  the  educatic  n  of  her  high-born  pupil.  The  beau- 
tiful girl  acquired  her  tasks  so  rapidly,  and  with  such  an  intense 
desire  for  improvement,  that  Sir  Alexander  declared,  thai  she 
beat  his  Madge  hollow. 

"Diunh  North  exulted  in  the  growing  charms  of  her  grand- 
daughter. If  the  old  woman  regarded  anything  on  earth  with 
affection,  it  was  the  tall,  fair  girl  so  unlike  herself.  And 
Alice,  too — I  have  often  wondered  how  it  were  possible — Ali'ie 
loved  with  the  most  ardent  affection,  that  forbidding-looking, 
odious  creature.  .: 

"  To  me,  since  the  death  of  my  mother,  she  had  been  civil  but 
reserved — never  addressing  me  without  occasion  reouiref" — and 
I  neither  sought  nor  cared  for  her  regard.  . .       : 

"  It  was  on  the  return  of  one  of  those  holidays,  when  I 
returned  home  full  of  eager  anticipations  of  happiness,  of  joyous 
days  spent  at  the  park  in  company  with  Margaret  and  Alice, 
that  I  first  beheld  that  artful  villain,  Robert  Moncton. 

"  It  was  a  lovely  July  evening.  The  York  coach  set  me 
down  at  the  Park  gates,  and  I  entered  the  pretty  cottage  with 
my  scanty  luggage  on  my  back,  and  found  the  lawyer  engaged 
in  earnest  conversation  with  my  grandmotber.  -     . 

"Struck  with  the  appearonce  of  the  man,  which  at  first  sight 
is  very  remarkable,  I  paused  for  some  minutes  on  the  threshold, 
unobserved  by  the  parties.  Like  you,  Geoffrey,  I  shall  never 
forget  the  impression  his  countenance  made  upon  me.  The 
features  M^  handsome,  the  coloring  so  fine,  the  person  that  of  a 
finished  gentleman  ;  and  yet,  all  this  pleasing  combination  of 
form  and  face  marred  by  that  cold,  cruel,  merciless  eye.  Its 
expression  so  dead,  so  joyless,  sent  a  chill  through  my  whole 
frame,  and  I  shrank  from  encountering  its  icy  gaze,  and  was 


158 


THE     MONCTONS. 


about  qaietly  to  retire  by  a  back  door,  when  my  uttentioa  was 
arrested  by  the  following  brief  conversation. 

"  '  I  should  like  to  see  the  lad.' 

"  '  We  expect  him  home  from  school  by  the  coach  to-night,* 

*"  What  age  is  he  ?'  *; 

"*  Just  sixteen.' 

"  *  What  does  Sir  Alexander  mean  to  do  for  him  V 

"  'Send  him  to  college,  I  believe.     He  is  very  fond  of  him.' 

"  *  Humph  1 — and  then  to  London  to  make  a  lawyer  of  him. 
Leave  him  to  me,  Dinah,  I  will  make  a  solicitor  of  him  in 
earnest.  I  have  taught  many  a  bold  heart  and  reckless  hand  to 
solicit  the  charity  of  others.' 

"  ^ Devil  doubt  you  !'  rejoined  the  fiend  with  a  hollow,  cack- 
ling laugh.  '  But  you  may  find  the  boy  one  too  many  for  you, 
with  all  your  cunning.  He'll  not  start  at  shadows,  nor  stumble 
over  straws.  I  have  tamed  many  a  proud  spirit  in  my  day — 
bat  this  boy  defies  my  power.  I  fear  and  hate  him,  but  I  cannot 
crush  him.     But  huah  I — here  he  is.' 

"  I  bustled  forward  and  flung  my  portmanteau  heavily  to  the 
ground.  'How  are  you,  grandmother?  How's  Alice?  All 
well,  I  hope  ?' 

" ' Do  you  see  the  gentleman,  Philip,?' 

"  '  Gentleman  1  I  beg  his  pardon.  A  fine  evening,  sir  ; 
but  very  hot  and  dusty  travelling  by  the  coach.  I  have  not 
tasted  anything  since  breakfast,  grandmother  ;  and  I  am  tired 
and  hungry.' 

" '  Yours  is  the  hungry  age,'  said  the  lawyer,  staring  me  full 
iu  the  face,  as  if  he  was  taking  a  proof  impression  for  legal 
purposes.  His  cold,  searching  look  brought  the  blood  to  my 
cheeks,  and  I  returned  the  impertinent  scrutiny  with  a  glance 
of  defiance.  , 

"  He  rose ;  nodded  meaningly  to  Dinah,  bowed  slightly  to 
me,  and  left  the  cottage.   •  ',• 

"  The  next  minute  Alice  was  in  my  arms.  ,  - 


/ 


I 


THE    MONCTONS. 


159 


i<  I 


ii 


Brother  I  dear,  darling    brother !    welcome,  welcome  a 
tboQsaDd  times.' 

"  Oh,  what  a  contrast  to  the  dark,  joyless  countenance  of 
Diij^h  North,  was  the  cherub  face  of  Alice — laughing  in  the 
irresistible  glee  of  her  young  heart,  I  forgot  my  long,  tiresome 
journey,  dust,  heat,  and  hunger,  as  I  pulled  her  on  my  knee, 
and  covered  her  rosy  cheeks  witn  kisses. 

"  '  What  news  since  I  left,  Alice  V 

"  '  Sad  news,  Philip.  Dear  Madge  is  in  London  on  a  visit  to 
her  aunt;  and  there  is  a  dull,  cross  boy  staying  at  the  Hall,  with 
a  very  hard  name — Theophilus  Moncton — Margaret's  cousin. 
But  he  is  nothing  like  her,  though  he  calls  her  his  little  wife. 
But  Madge  says  that  she  will  never  have  him,  though  his  father 
is  very  rich.' 

"  *  I  am  sure  you  will  hate  him,  Philip,  for  he  calls  us  beggar's 
brats,  and  wonders  that  Sir  Alexander  suffers  his  daughter  to 
play  with  us.  I  told  him  that  he  was  very  rude  ;  and  that  he 
had  better  not  afifront  you,  for  you  would  soon  teach  him  better 
manners.  But  he  only  sneered  at  me,  and  said,  "  My  father's  a 
gentleman.  He  never  suffers  me  to  associate  with  people 
beneath  us.  Your  brother  had  better  keep  out  of  my  way,  or  I 
will  order  my  groom  to  horsewhip  him."  I  felt  ver*^  angry  and 
began  to  cry,  and  Sir  Alexander  came  in  and  reproved  the  boy, 
and  told  me  I  had  better  return  to  grandmama  until  Mr.  Monc- 
ton and  his  son  had  left  the  Hall.' 

"  While  little  Alice,  ran  on  thus  to  me,  I  felt  stung  to 
the  quick  ;  and  all  the  pride  of  my  nature  warring  within.  For 
the  first  time  in  my  life,  I  became  painfully  conscious  of  the 
difference  of  rank  that  existed  between  me  and  my  benefactor  ; 
I  was  restless  and  unhappy,  and  determined  not  to  go  near  the 
Hall,  until  Sir  Alexander  bade  me  to  do  so  himself. 

•'  But  days  passed,  and  I  saw  nothing  of  the  good  Baronet, 
and  Alice  and  I  were  obliged  to  content  ourselves  by  roaming 
through  all  the  old,  beloved  haunts,  and  talking  of  Margaret. 


IGO 


THE     M  O  N  C  T  0  N  8  . 


i 


'.«* 


f  'i  ' 


'  It 


Wo  were  returning  one  evening  through  tlio  fine  avenue  of  ouks, 
that  led  to  the  front  entrance  of  the  demesne,  when  a  pony 
rushed  past  us  at  full  gallop,  A  boyish  inii)ul.so,  tempted  nio 
to  give  a  loud  halloo,  in  order  to  set  the  beautiful  animal  off  at 
its  wildest  speed.  In  a  few  minutes  we  met  a  lad  of  my  own 
age,  booted  and  spurred,  with  a  whip  in  his  hand,  running  in  the 
same  direction  the  pony  had  taken.  lie  was  in  a  towering 
passion,  and  coming  up  to  u8,  he  cried  out,  with  a  menacing 
air — 

"  '  You  impudent  rascal !  how  dared  you  to  shout  in  that 
way,  to  frighten  my  horse,  when  you  saw  mo  endeavoring  to 
catch  him  ?' 

"  '  I  saw  no  such  thing,'  I  replied,  drily.  *  I  admired  the 
pony,  and  shouted  to  see  how  much  faster  he  could  run.' 

"  *  You  deserve  a  good  thrashing,'  quoth  he.  '  Go  and  catch 
the  horse  for  me,  or  I  will  complain  to  Sir  Alexander  of  your 
conduct.' 

"  Sir  Alexander  is  not  my  master,  ueithfcr  are  you.  I  shall 
do  no  such  thing.' 

"  '  Do  it  instantly  I'  stamping  with  his  foot. 
"  *  Do  it  yourself.    You  look  quite  as  fit  foi  a  groom  as  I  do.' 
"  I  tried  to  pass  him,  but  he  stepped  into  the  centre  of  the 
path,   and    hindered    me.      To    avoid    a    coUisiou   was    now 
impossible. 

"  *  You  insolent  young  blackguard  1'  he  cried,  '  do  you 
know  that  you  are  speaking  to  a  gentleman  ?' 

"  '  Indeed  P  I  said,  with  a  provoking  smile.  '  I  ought  to 
thank  you  for  the  information,  for  I  never  should  have  suspected 
the  fact.' 

"  With  a  yell  of  rage,  he  struck  me  in  the  face  with  the  butt 
end  of  his  whip.  I  sprang  upon  him  with  the  strength  of  a 
tiger,  and  seizing  his  puny  form  in  my  arms,  I  dashed  him 
beneath  ray  feet,  and  after  bestowing  upon  him  sundry  hearty 
kicks,  rejoined  the   terrified   Alice,  and  left  Mr.   Thcophilua 


T  11  K     M  0  N  C  T  0  N  a  . 


XM 


MoQcLcn,  to  gather  up  his  fallun  dit^tiity,  and  mako  tho  best  (.f 
bis  wuY  home  to  the  Uull. 

"  Tills  frolic  cost  mo  far  more  than  I  expected,  Tho  next 
morning,  Sir  Alexander  rode  over  to  the  Lodge,  and  Rcveroly 
reprimanded  me  for  my  conduct ;  and  ended  his  lecture,  by 
affirming  in  positive  terms,  that  if  I  did  not  beg  his  young 
relative's  pardon,  he  would  withdraw  his  favor  from  mo  for  ever. 

"This,  I  proudly  refused  to  do — and  the  Baronet  as  proudly 
told  me,  '  To  see  his  face  no  more  1' 

"  I  looked  sorrowfully  up  as  he  said  this.  The  tears  were  in 
ray  eyes,  for  I  loved  him  very  much — but  my  heart  was  too  fill 
to  speak. 

"  He  leant  down  from  his  horse,  expecting  my  answer — I  was 
silent — the  color  mounted  to  his  cheeks — he  waited  a  few 
minutes  longer — I  made  no  sign,  and  he  struck  the  spurs  into  his 
horse,  and  rode  quickly  away. 

"  '  There  goes  my  only  friend  V  I  cried.  '  Curse  the  mean 
wretch,  who  robbed  me  of  my  friend  !  I  only  regret  I  did  not 
kill  him  1' 

"  Thus,  for  one  boyish  act  of  indiscretion  I  was  flung  friend- 
less upon  the  world.  Yet,  GeoflFrcy,  were  the  thing  to  do  again, 
I  feel,  that  I  could  not,  and  would  not,  act  otherwise. 

"  Time  has  convinced  me  that  Robert  Moncton.  acting  with 
his  usual  policy,  had  made  Sir  Alexander  ashamed  of  his  con- 
nection with  us,  and  he  gladly  availed  himself  of  the  first 
plausible  excuse  to  cast  me  off.  Alice  deeply  lament»^.i  r^y 
disgrace  ;  but  the  whole  affair  afforded  mirth  to  my  grandmotner, 
who  seemed  greatly  to  enjoy  my  unfortunate  triumph  over  the 
boy  with  the  hard  name. 


tt 
a 


162 


THE    MONCTONS. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 


HARRISON     FINDS     A     F  R  I  E  N  D*   I  N     NEED. 


"  During  my  residence  at  school  in  York,  my  master  was  often 
visited  by  a  wealthy  merchant  who  bore  the  same  name  with 
myself.  This  man  was  an  old  bachelor,  very  eccentric,  but  uni- 
versally esteemed  as  one  of  the  most  benevolent  of  men.  He 
was  present  at  one  of  the  school  ezaminations  in  which  I  took 
many  prizes,  and  asking  my  name  he  found  out  that  he  was 
related  to  my  father,  and  bestowed  upon  me  many  marks  of 
favor,  such  as  presenting  rae  with  useful  books,  and  often  asking 
me  over  to  his  house  to  dine,  or  spend  the  evening. 

"  Flattered  by  his  attentions  to  me,  I  had  lost  no  opportunity 
of  increasing  our  friendship,  and  I  determined  to  apply  to  him 
in  my  present  distress. 

"  I  was  a  perfect  novice  in  the  art  of  letter-writing,  never  having 
penned  an  epistle  in  my  life,  and  after  making  several  attempts 
with  which  I' was  perfectly  disgusted,  I  determined  to  walk  over 
to  the  city  and  make  my  application  in  person  to  Mr.  Morning- 
ton. 

"  Without  communicating  my  intentions  to  Alice,  I  carefully 
tied  up  a  change  of  linen  in  a  silk  handkerchief,  and  with  the 
mighty  sum  of  five  shillings  in  my  pocket,  commenced  my  pedes- 
trian journey  of  thirty  odd  miles. 

"  I  started  in  the  morning  by  day-break,  and  without  meeting 
with  any  particular  adventures  on  the  road,  I  arrived  at  six 
o'clock  in  the  evening,  foot-sore  and  weary  at  the  rich  man's 
door.  When  there,  my  heart,  which  had  been  as  stout  as  a 
lion's  on  the  road,  failed  me,  and  I  sat  down  upon  the  broad 


TUB     MONCTONS. 


163 


« 


stone  steps  that  led  op  to  the  house,  horribly  aepressed  and 
uncertain  what  course  to  take. 

"  This  I  knew,  would  not  do — the  night  was  coming  on,  and  the 
rain  which  had  threatened  all  day  now  began  to  fall  fast.  Mak- 
ing a  desperate  effort,  I  sprang  up  the  steps,  an^  gave  a  gentle 
knock — so  gentle,  that  it  was  unheard  ;  and  unable  to  summon 
sufficient  courage  to  repeat  the  experiment,  I  resumed  my  seat 
until  some  more  fortunate  applicant  should  seek  admittance. 

"Not  many  minutes  elapsed,  before  the  quick  loud  rap  of  the 
postman,  brought  Mrs.  Jolly,  the  housekeeper,  to  the  doo:: ;  and 
edging  close  to  him  of  the  red  jacket,  I  asked  in  a  tremulous 
voice — *  If  Mr.  Mornington  was  at  home  V 

"  '  Why,  dearee  me,  master  Philip,  is  that  you  V  said  the  kind 
woman,  elevating  her  spectacles — 'who  would  '.ave  thought  of 
seeing  yon  t'night  ?" 

"  *  Who  indeed.  But,  my  dear  Mrs.  Jolly,  is  Mr.  Mornington 
disengaged,  and  can  I  see  him  V 

•' '  He  is  t'home,  and  you  can  speak  to  him,  but  not  just  now. 
He's  to  his  dinner,  and  doan't  like  to  be  disturbed.  But  come 
this  way,  an  I'll  tell  him  you  are  here.' 

*' '  Who's  that  you  are  speaking  to,  Mrs,  Jolly  V  cried  my 
worthy  old  friend  as  we  passed  the  dining-room  door,  through 
which  the  footmen  were  carrying  an  excellent  dinner  to  table. 

"  '  Only  Mr.  Philip,  sir.' 

"  *  Mr.  Philip  1'  and  the  next  moment,  the  old  man  came  out 
and  grasped  me  warmly  by  the  hand.  '  Why  lad,  what  brings 
you  back  to  school  so  soon — tired  of  play  already,  hey  V 

'"  No  sir.  I  fear  play  will  soon  tire  of  me.  I  am  to  go  to 
school  no  more.' 

"  *  Sorry  to  bear  that,  Phil.  Just  the  time  when  instruction 
would  be  of  the  most  service  to  you  ;  you  would  learn  more  in 
the  ensuing  year,  than  in  all  that  have  gone  before  it.  Leave 
school — no,  no,  I  must  see  you  the  head  boy  in  it  yet.' 

It  was  my  ambition,  sir.    But  you  know  I  am  only  a  poor 


II I 


164 


THE      MONCTOXS. 


L^ 


orphan  lad,  entirely  dependent  on  the  bounty  of  Sir  Alexander 
Moncton.  I  have  offended  this  gentleman,  and  he  will  do  no 
more  for  me  ;  and  I  wallied  from  the  Park  to-day  to  ask  your 
advice  as  to  what  course  I  had  better  pursue,  and  in  what  way 
I  am  most  likely  to  earn  my  own  living.' 

"  The  old  gentleman  looked  grave. 

"  '  Offended  Sir  Alexander  ?  You  must  have  acted  very  im- 
prudently to  do  that,  and  he  so  kind  to  you.  Walked  all  the 
M'ay  from  Moncton.  Bless  the  boy,  how  tired  and  hungry  you 
mnst  be.  Sit  down,  young  Piiilip  Mornington,  and  get  your 
dii.ut  •  with  old  Philip  Mornington  ;  and  we  will  talk  over  these 
matters  by  and  bye.' 

"  Gladly  I  accepted  the  dear  old  gentleman's  hearty  invitation. 
I  had  not  tasted  food  since  early  dawn,  and  was  so  outrageously 
hungry  and  eat  with  such  a  right  good  will,  that  he  often  stop- 
ped and  laughed  heartily  at  my  voracity. 

"'Well  done,  Pliilip  !  Don't  be  ashamed — hold  in  your 
plate  for  another  slice  of  beef.  Thirty  miles  of  hard  walking  at 
this  season  of  the  year,  may  well  give  a  boy  of  sixteen,  strong 
and  healthy  like  you,  a  good  appetite.' 

"After  the  cloth  was  drawn,  and  the  old  gentleman  had 
refreshed  me  with  a  couple  of  glasses  of  excellent  wine,  obedient 
to  his  request,  I  related  to  him  my  adventure  with  Theophilus 
Moncton  in  the  park,  and  its  unfortunate  result. 

"  Instead  of  blaming  me,  the  whole  afi^iir  seemed  greatly  to 
amuse  the  hearty  old  man.  He  fell  back  in  his  chair,  and 
chuckled  and  laughed  until  he  declared  that  his  sides  ached. 

"  *  And  was  it  for  punishing  that  arrogant  puppy  as  he 
deserved,  that  Sir  Alexander  cast  you,  my  fii.c  fellow,  from  his 
favor  ?' 

"  '  He  might  have  forgiven  that.     It  was  for  refusing  so  posl-  ^ 
tively  his  commands,  in  not  asking  young  Moncton's  pai^lon.'    • , 

"  'If  you  had  obeyed  him  in  this  instance,  Philip,"^u ^ould 
have  forfeited  my  good    opinion  for   ever,   .uid   would^i^avo. 


^^" 


^.- 


-y 


THE     M  0  N  C  T  0  K  S 


165 


m--' 


* 


deserved  to  have  been  kicked  by  Sir  Alexander's  lackeys  for 
your  meanness.  Don't  look  so  cast  down,  boy.  I  hoijor  yoo 
for  your  self-respect  and  independence.  You  have  other  friends 
besides  Sir  Alexander  Moncton,  who  will  not  forsake  you  for 
taking  your  own  part  like  a  man.  You  shall  go  to  school  yet 
— ay,  and  become  the  head  scholar  in  Dr.  Trimmer's  head  class, 
and  finish  your  education  at  Oxford,  or  my  name  is  not  Philip 
Mornington.' 

"  JIow  well  did  this  excellent,  warm-hearted,  generous  man 
perform  his  promise — how  ill  I  profited  by  the  education  he 
gave  me,  and  the  wealth  he  bequeathed  to  me  at  his  death,  the 
subsequent  portion  of  my  history  will  reveal. 

"  I  went  to  school  at  the  end  of  the  vacation,  but  as  a  day- 
boarder  ;  Mr.  Mornington  having  told  me  to  consider  his  house 
as  my  future  home.  ,  j .    .     .  , 

"  A  boy  that  came  from  ou^*  village  to  Dr.  Trimmer's  school, 
told  me  that  Sir  Alexander's  passion  soon  cooled,  and  he  rode 
over  to  the  Lodge  a  week  after  I  left,  to  inquire  after  his  old 
pet,  and  was  surprised  and  exasperated  to  find  the  bird  flown, 
and  taken  by  the  hand  by  a  man  for  whom  he  had  a  great  per- 
sonal antipathy  ;  who  had  ever  opposed  him  in  politics,  and  had 
twice  carried  an  election  against  him. 

"  There  was  enough  of  revenge  in  my  composition  to  feel 
glad  that  Sir  Alexander  was  annoyed  at  my  good-fortune. 

"  The  next  year  saw  me  at  college,  with  a  handsome  allow- 
ance from  my  generous  patron,  to  enable  me  to  establish  my 
claims  as  a  gentleman.  I  will  pass  over  the  three  years  I  spent 
at  this  splendid  abode  of  science,  where  learning  and  vice  walk 
hand  in  hand. 

"  The  gratitude  I  felt  for  all  Mr.  Mornington  had  done  for 
,me,  for  a  long  time  restrained  me  from  indulging  in  the  wild 
excesses  which  disgraced  the  conduct  of  most  of  the  young  men 
with  whotn  I  associated.  This  reluctance,  however,  to  do  and 
countenance  evil,  gradually  wore  off,  and  I  became  as  wild  and 
dissipated  as  the  rest. 


\\ 


•  1 


% 


-»% 


166 


THE     M0NCT0N8. 


"  I  formed  many  agreeable  acquaintances  at  college,  but  one 
only  who  really  deserved  the  name  of  a  friend.  Kind,  gentle  and 
studious,  Cornelius  Laurio  (for  so  I  shall  call  him)  mingled 
very  little  with  his  fellow  ctudents  ;  his  health  being  delicate,  he 
spent  most  of  his  Isisure  hours  in  walking,  an  exercise  of  which 
he  was  particularly  fond,  and  in  which  I  generally  participated. 

"  His  mild,  intelligent  countenance  first  won  my  regard.  I 
sought  his  acquaintance,  found  him  easy  of  access,  friendly  and 
communicative,  and  always  anxious  to  oblige  every  one  as  far 
as  lay  in  his  power.  Commanding  an  excellent  income,  he  was 
always  ready  to  assist  the  improvident  who  had  expended  theirs, 
and  with  such  a  disposition,  you  may  be  certain,  that  the  calls 
upon  his  purse  were  by  no  means  few.  He  formed  a  strong 
attachment  to  me,  and  we  usually  spent  most  of  our  time 
together. 

"  Cornelius  invited  me  to  pass  the  Christmas  vacation  with 
him  in  town.  When  at  home  he  resided  with  his  aunt,  a  widow 
lady  who  had  brought  up  his  only  sister,  who  had  been  left  an 
orphan  at  a  very  early  age.  Charlotte  Laurie  was  several  years 
younger  than  her  brother  ;  and  in  speaking  of  her.  he  had 
always  told  me  that  she  was  a  very  pretty  girl,  I  was  not  pre- 
pared to  behold  the  beautiful  and  fascinating  creature  to  whom 
I  was  introduced. 

"  Charlotte  Laurie  was  a  child  of  nature,  without  display  or 
affectation  ;  conscious  of  her  great  personal  attractions  only  so 
far  as  to  render  her  more  agreeable — for  what  beautiful  woman 
was  ever  ignorant  of  her  charms  ?  My  pretty  Lotty  knew  per- 
fectly the  power  they  gave  her  over  the  restless  and  inconstant 
heart  of  man,  but  she  did  not  abuse  it. 

"  My  passions,  Qf'oWrej,  by  nature,  are  as  warm  and  impetu- 
ous as  your  own,  ar..i  they  soon  betrayed  me  into  love  ;  and  I 
thought  that  the  fair  girl  to  whom  I  had  lost  my  heart  was  not 
insensible  to  the  pasaion  she  had  inspired.  But  when  I  recalled 
my  obscure  paiintage,  of  which  Cornelius  was  perfectly 
ignorant ;  and  the  uncertainty  of  ray  future  prospects,  1  felt 


) 


{        "4 


J 


IBS    UONCTONS. 


167 


that  it  would  be  dishonorable  in  me  to  advance  my  salt  to  the 
young  lady.  • 

"  To  remain  in  the  house  and  keep  silent  upon  a  subject  so 
important  to  my  peace,  I  found  would  be  impossible  ;  and  I 
feigned  a  letter  from  Mr.  Monilngton,  whom  I  called  my  uncle, 
requiring  my  immediate  presence  in  York.  ^ 

*'  My  departure  caused  great  regret  to  the  family.     Cornelius 

remonstrated ;   Mrs.   H questioned  the  necessity  of  my 

journey  ;  Charlotte  said  nothing,  but  left  the  room  in 'tears. 
Strongly  tempted  as  I  was  to  stay,  I  remained  firm  to  my 
original  purpose,  and  bade  adieu  to  my  amiable  friends,  without 
breathing  a  word  even  to  Cornelius  of  my  attachment  for  hia 
sister. 

"  On  my  way  to  York  I  called  at  my  old  home,  and  was 
received  wjth  the  most  lively  demonstrations:  of  joy  by  Alice, 
whom  I  found  a  blooming  girl  of  fifteen. 

"  Old  Dinah  told  me,  as  she  scowled  at  my  handsome  dress 
and  improved  appearance,  *  That  she  supposed  I  was  now  too 
fine  a  gentleman  to  call  her  grandmother,  or  Alice  sister  V 

"  I  assured  her  that  my  improved  circumstances  had  not 
changed  my  heart,  nor  made  me  ashamed  of  my  old  friends. 

•'  Something,  I  fear,  in  my  looks,  contradicted  my  words,  for 
she  turned  from  me  with  a  scornful  smile. 

"'The  world,'  she  said,  .'was  a  good  school  for  teaching 
people  the  art  of  falsehood.' 

"  Her  sarcasms  made  me  very  uncomfortable — for  my  con- 
science convicted  me  of  their  truth — and  turning  to  Alice  I 
begged  her  to  tell  me  the  news,  for  I  was  certain  a  great  deal 
must  have  happened  in  the  neighborhood  during  the  four  years 
I  had  been  absent. 

"  *  No,'  said  Alice  ;  '  we  go  on  much  as  usual.  Sir  Alexan- 
der and  Margaret  are  very  kind  to  me,  and  I  go  every  day  up 
to  the  Hall.  But  she  is  Miss  Moncton  now — and  I  am  plain 
Alice  Momington.    Mr.  Theophilus  is  often  there;  and  he  is  so 


*    >4 


■f 


V     ' 


168 


T  tl  B     M  0  N  0  i  0  N  S  , 


much  improved,  Philip,  you  would  never  know  b;  n.  He  is  no 
longer  proud  and  disagreeable,  but  so  affable  and  kind,  and 
always  sees  me  safe  home  to  the  Lodge.  People  sav  that  he  is 
to  marry  Miss  Moncton  ;  but  I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it.  He 
does  not  love  her  I  am  certain — for  1;^  told  me  «o  a  few  days 
ago  ;  and  that  he  thought  me  a  thousand  times  JMndsomer  than 
his  cousin  !' 

"  While  Alice  run  on  thus,  I  kept  ray  eyes  fixed  upon  her 
beautiful  face  ;  and  from  the  lieightening  of  her  color  v.'hcu 
speaking  of  Theophilus,  I  was  convinced,  that  young  as  sb-; 
was,  she  was  not  insensiltio  to  his  flattery.  Anxious  to  warn 
her  of  her  danger,  I  dro  w  hor  arm  through  mine,  and  we  strolled 
together  into  the  park. 

"'Dear  Alice,'  I  «aid,  affection:itely  :  *do  you  love  your 
brother  as  well  as  you  used  to  do  in  yours  ^ong  past  V 

It 

'"Philip,  do  you  doubt  my  love?'  ile  answered,  reprcach- 
fally. 

"  '  Not  in  the  least,  Alice.  1  Know  your  heart  to  be  warm  and 
true  ;  but  years  make  great  changes.  Four  y^ars  have  fled 
away  since  we  met,  and  you  are  nearly  grown  into  a  woman. 
Perhaps  you  wili  be  angry  with  rae  if  I  venture  to  give  you  a 
little  brotherly  advice.' 

"  *  Not  without  you  soold  me  too  much.' 

"  *  My  lecture,  Alice,  I  will  coniine  to  a  few  v/ords.  Do  not 
listen,  dear  child,  to  the  flattering  speeches  of  Theophilus  Monc- 
tom.     He  means  you  no  good.' 

"  '  How  can  you  know  that  V  she  said,  quickly. 

"  '  From  the  general  character  which  the  man  bears.  From 
my  own  experience  of  him  when  a  boy.  Avoid  his  company  ;  he 
means  to  deceive  you.' 

"  *  Philip,  you  wroii^  him,  indeed,  you  do  1'  she  cried,  with 
flashhig-  eyes.  '  He  never  talks  to  me  of  love,  he  only  seeks  to 
be  my  friend.  I  am  too  young  to  think  6f  leipt..  lydoft't  know 
"what  being  in  love  is — l  it  I  do  feel  ver"  grateful  to  one  so 


i 


^'■i 


THE     MONCTONS. 


109 


om 
lie 

itli 
to 

low 
so 


I 


I 


much  richer  and  better  than  me,  and  who  is  heir  to  all  these 
beautiful  groves,  and  that  fine  old  Hall,  taking  such  an 
interest  in  my  welfare — particularly,'  she  added,  with  great 
emphasis  on  her  words,  '  after  he  received  such  unworthy  treat- 
mcMfc  from  a  brother  of  mine.' 

"  '  You  surely  do  not  mean  what  you  say,  Alice  ?' 

"  '  T.  never  say  what  I  do  not  mean  ;  and  if  you  come  back  to 
us,  Philip,  only  to  quarrel  with  us,  you  had  better  have  stayed 
away.' 

"  For  a  few  minutes  I  felt  terribly  annoyed  ;  but  when  I 
recollected  that  these  words  fell  from  the  lips  of  a  spoilt  child, 
I  restrained  m}  ^nger,  in  the  hope  of  saving  her  from  the  ruin  I 
feared  might  be  impending  over  her. 

"  '  Alice,  you  are  a  simple,  little  girl  ;  as  such  I  forgive  you* 
You  are  not  aware  of  the  danger  to  which  you  are  exposed. 
Young  people  are  so  ignorant  of  the  treachery  of  the  world,  and 
so  confident  in  their  own  strength  to  resist  temptation,  that  they 
easily  fall  into  the  snares  laid  for  them  by  wicked  and  designing 
men.  If  you  persist  in  receiving  the  attentions  of  this  man,  who 
would  consider  it  the  utmost  degradation  to  make  you  his  wife, 
1,  as  your  brother  and  natural  protector,  will  consider  it  my  duty 
to  remove  you  from  this  place.' 

"  *  I  will  not  go  !'  she  cried  ;  stopping  suddenly  and  looking 
me  in  the  face  with  an  air  of  defiance.  *  You  are  not  your  own 
master  yet,  much  less  mine,  I  shall  remain  here  with  my  dear, 
old  grandmother,  a^  long  as  she  lives.  And  let  me  tell  you, 
Mr.  Philip,  I  am  as  competent  to  manage  my  own  affairs  as  you 
are  I' 

"  Could  this  be  AUce  ? 

"I  looked  at  her,  and  looked  rj^ain.  The  beauty  of  her 
countenance '  seemed  chi-v/^d.  "'  turned  from  her  with  a  deep 
sigh. 

"  '  Oh,  Alice^lsijr  Alice  1  I  tremble  for  you  ;  so'j^oung  and 

80  vindictive.    This  is  not  my  Alicej  the  h?ppy,  confiding  Alice, 

who  once  I'^ved  mo  so  tenderly.' 

o 


170 


THE     MONCTONS. 


<t  I 


I  did  love  you,  Philip,  very  much,'  she  replied,  in  a 
softened  voice ;  '  but  how  wui  my  love  returned  ?  You  quar- 
relled with  the  only  friend  we  had  in  the  world.  One,  too,  who 
had  done  so  much  for  us.  To  whose  bounty  we  were  indebted 
for  u  home  and  daily  bread  ;  for  the  clothes  we  wore,  for  the 
instruction  we  received — who  treated  us  in  every  respect  more 
like  his  own  children,  than  the  poor  recipients  of  his  noble  gene- 
rosity. You  forgot  all  this.  You  insolently  refused  to  apologize 
to  his  young  relative,  the  heir  of  his  title  and  wealth,  for  having 
grossly  insulted  him,  and  left  your  home  and  his  protection 
..Ithout  bidding  this  dear  sister,  for  whose  well-doing  you  are  so 
deeply  concerned,  and  who  shared  in  your  disgrace,  one  short 
farewell.' 
.    "  '  Alice,  Alice  I' 

"  '  Hush,  sir  ;  hear  me  to  the  end,  if  you  please.  You  acted 
more  ungratefully  still,  when  you  sought  employment  from  one 
of  Sir  Alexander's  bitterest  enemies  ;  and  never  wrote  a  single 
line  either  to  your  injured  patron  or  to  us.  Was  this  love  ? 
Young  as  I  am,  Philip  Mornington,  I  could  not  have  been 
guilty  of  such  baseness.  I  despise  your  conduct — and  advice 
comes  very  ill  from  a  person  who  could  be  guilty  of  such.' 

"  She  turned  haughtily  away — and  I,  Geoffrey,  I  stood  over- 
whelmed with  confusion  and  remorse.  I  had  never  seen  my 
conduct  in  this  light  before.  I  had  all  along  imagined  myself 
the  injured  party,  and  looked  upon  Sir  Alexander  as  an  unrea- 
sonable persecutor.  But  I  felt  at  that  moment,  as  I  stood 
humbled  before  that  proud  girl,  that  I  had  not  acted  right — 
that  some  concession  was  due  on  my  part  to  the  man  from  whom 
I  had  received  so  many  benefits  ;  and  but  for  very  shame  I 
would  have  sought  his  presence,  acknowledged  my  error,  und 
entreated  his  pardon. 

"  Oh,  why  does  this  stubborn  pride  so  often  stand  between  us 
and  our  best  intentions  I  let  the  moment  pass,  and  my  heart 
remained  true  to  its  stern  determination,  no^  to  yield  one  inch 


T 


THE     M0NGT0N8, 


m 


llf 


;a- 


nd 


of  what  I  falsely  termed  independence.  My  reverie  was  dis- 
pelled by  Alice.     She  took  my  hand  kindly. 

"  '  You  look  grave,  Philip.  I  have  put  these  serious  thoughts 
into  your  head,  and  you  feel  sorry  for  the  past.  My  anger  is 
all  gone,  I  forgive  you  from  my  very  heart.  Go  give  me  a  kiss, 
and  let  us  be  friends.  But  no  lectures  if  you  please  for  the 
future.  I  will  not  stand  a  scolding — not  even  from  you.  You 
need  not  fear  that  I  shall  disgrace  you — I  am  too  proud  to 
place  myself  in  the  power  of  any  one.  I  like,  yes,  I  love  Theo. 
philus  Moncton,  but  he  will  never  make  a  fool  of  me,  or  any  one 
else.     But — hush — here  is  Miss  Mcncton.' 

"  The  blood  crimsoned  my  face  as  a  sudden  turning  in  the  wood- 
land path,  brought  me  within  a  few  paces  of  one  who  at  that 
moment  I  would  gladly  have  shunned.  To  retreat  was  impos- 
sible. I  raised  my  hat,  and  with  her  usual  frankness,  Margaret 
held  out  her  hand. 

"  I  pressed  it  respectfully  between  my  own  without  venturing 
to  raise  my  eyes  to  her  face.  She  perceived  my  confusion,  and 
doubtless  defined  the  cause. 

"  '  You  have  been  a  sad  truant,  Philip.  But  you  are  welcome 
home.     I,  for  one,  rejoice  to  see  my  dear  foster  brother  again/ 

"  *  Is  that  possible  V  I  stammered  out — *  Dear  Miss  Monc- 
ton, I  am  only  too  happy  to  be  allowed  to  pleovl  for  myself — I 
feel  that  I  have  sinned  against  my  good  and  generous  bene- 
factor ;  that  this  kindness  on  your  part,  is  wholly  undeserved. 
What  shall  I  do  to  regain  your  good  opinion.' 

" '  Say  nothing  at  all  about  it,  Geoflfrey.  It  was  a  boyish 
fault,  and  my  father  has  often  repented  that  he  treated  it  so 
seriously.  For  my  own  part,  I  do  not  blame  you  for  thrashing 
Theophilus  ;  had  I  been  provoked  in  the  same  manner,  and  a  lad 
of  your  dge,  I  would  have  done  it  myself.  My  quarrel  with 
you,  is  for  leaving  the  Park,  and  deserting  us  all,  before  a  recon- 
ciliation could  take  pi  You  knew  (bat  my  father's  anger 
was  like  dew  upon  th-    ;;-iP?i.  evaporated  by  the  first  sunbeam, 


172 


THE    HONOTONS. 


and  that  wo  loved  you  dearly — so  that  your  conduct  appears 
inexcusable  and  heartless.*  '     • 

"  *  Oh,  do  not  say  that,  Miss  Moncton.  What  I  did  was 
perfectly  impulsive,  without  thought  or  premeditation.  I  could 
not  imagine  that  I  was  in  the  wrong,  and  Sir  .AI'.Aander's  con- 
duct appeared  to  me  cruel  and  unjust.' 

"  '  Come  with  me  to  the  Hall,  Mr.  Morninj^^toa,  and  I  will  plead 
your  case  to  this  cruel  tyrant.  My  eloquence,  with  papa,  is 
quite  irresistible — and  he,  poor  dear,  is  more  ready  to  forgive, 
than  you  are  to  ask  forgiveness.' 

"  This  was  said,  with  one  of  her  bewitching  smiles,  that  lighted 
up  like  a  passing  sunbeam  her  calm,  pale  face. 

"'You  are  too  good,  Miss  Moi-ton.  I  would  gladly  avail 
myself  of  your  invitation,  but  I  most  proceed  on  my  journey  to 
York  immediately.  I  hope,  however,  soon  to  visit  Moncton 
again  ;  when  I  will,  with  Sir  Alexander's  permission,  explain 
my  conduct,  and  ask  his  pardon.' 

**  *  I  hate  procrastination  in  these  matters,  which  pertain  to 
the  heart  and  conscience,'  said  Margaret.  *  My  motto,  when 
prompted  by  either,  to  perform  an  act  of  duty,  is — now  ;  when 
we  seek  forgiveness  from  God,  of  from  a  friend,  we  should  never 
defer  it  to  the  future,  for  the  opportuiiity  once  neglected,  may 
never  again  be  ours.' 

"  This  was  said  with  some  severity.  A  sort  of  mentpl  co  vard- 
ice  kept  me  back  and  hindered  me  eflfectually  from  profiting  by 
her  advice.  Just  then,  I  felt  it  was  out  of  ruy  power  to  meet 
Sir  Alexander.  I  had  not  courage  to  enter  his  presence  in  ray 
present  mood. 

"  *  Alice,"  said  Margaret,  turning  from  me  with  a  disappointed 
air,  *  what  has  kept  you  so  long  away  from  the  Hall  ?' 

"  '  I  grow  too  proud  to  visit  my  rich  friends,'  returned  '  Ice, 
in  a  tone  between  sarcasm  and  raillery. 

"  '  There  is  only  one  species  of  pride,  that  I  tolerate,'  said 
Margaret,  calmly — *the  pr.ae  of  worth.      That  pride  which 


t-. 


THK    MONOTONS. 


113 


Mr* 


enables  a  good  man  to  struggle  successi  /  against  the  arro- 
gance of  the  world.' 

"  I  turned  to  the  speaker  with  admiratiot).  Had  she  been  born 
a  peasant,  Margaret  Moncton  would  have  possessed  tlto  dignity 
of  a  lady,  and  the  little  lecture  she  thought  St  to  bestow  upon 
my  beautiful  wayward  sister,  was  dictated  by  the  same  uoble 
spirit 

** '  We  should  never  be  proud,  Alice,  of  the  gifts  of  nature,  or 
fortune,  which  depend  upon  no  merit  of  our  own.  Beauty  and 
wealth  have  their  duo  influence  in  the  world,  where  their  value 
is  greatly  overrated  ;  but  they  add  little  in  reality  to  the  pos- 
sessor. Deprived  of  both,  persons  of  little  moral  worth,  would 
relapse  into  their  original  insignificance  ;  while  those,  who 
improve  the  talents  entrusted  to  their  care  by  Providence,  pos- 
sess qualities  which  defy  the  power  of  change.  Such  persons 
can  alone  afifori  to  be  proud,  yet,  these,  of  all  others,  make  the 
least  display  aud  think  most  humbly  of  themselves.* 

This  was  said  playfully,  but  Alice  did  not  at  all  relish  the 
reproof  ;  which,  though,  disregarded  by  her,  made  a  deep  impres- 
sion upoi!  ne. 


-it^ 


CHAPTER    XVIII. 


I 


t- 


THE      MEETING. 

"  The  next  morning  I  arrived  in  York,  and  hastened  to  the 
house  of  Mr.  Mornington.  I  found  the  dear  old  gentleman  ill 
in  bed,  but  in  his  usual  excellent  spirits. 

"  On  expressing  my  concern  for  his  illness,  he  laughed  at  my 
long  face  j  told  me  it  was  a  trifle,  and  he  should  soon  be  well 
again.    Alas,  he  was  not  a  true  prophet  1     In  a  few  weeks  I 


lU 


TH  B     UO  N  CTON  S 


followed  ray  wortliy  friend  to  his  grave ;  and  found  myself  at 
tiic  age  of  Olio  and  twenty,  my  own  master,  and  sole  heir  to  his 
large  projjerty. 

"  Tlie  joy  felt  at  this  unexpected  good  fortune  was  more  than 
counterbalanced  by  the  loss  of  the  generous  donor.  Gladly 
would  I  have  resigned  the  wealth  ho  so  nobly  bequeathed  mo, 
if  by  so  doing  I  could  have  recalled  the  dear  old  man  to  life. 
I  was  detained  for  several  months  in  York,  settling  my  affairs. 
I  lost  no  time,  however,  in  acquainting  Cornelius,  by  letter,  of 
my  good  fortune.  I  took  this  opportunity  of  mentioning  my 
attachment  to  his  sister,  and  urged  hira,  if  ho  valued  ray  happi- 
ness, to  plead  with  her  in  ray  beimlf.  His  answer,  though  kind, 
Mas  far  from  satisfactory  to  a  young  and  ardent  lover. 

"He  informed  mo  that  Charlotte  was  not  insensible  to  my 
passion  ;  and  that  he  knew  that  she  entertained  for  me  a  sincere 
esteem  ;  but  it  was  entirely  out  of  her  power  to  accept  any 
offer  of  marriage  without  the  consent  of  her  guardian  ;  or  she 
would  lose  the  property  bequeathed  to  her  by  her  father  ;  who 
had  left  this  stringent  clause  in  his  will. 

"  For  himself,  he  continued,  nothing  would  give  him  greater 
pleasure,  than  to  see  his  beloved  sister  united  to  a  man  whom 
he  loved,  and  whom  he  considered  worthy  of  her  regard  ; 
particularly,  as  he  found  his  own  health  daily  declining,  and  was 
about  to  take  a  journey  to  the  south  of  France,  in  the  hope  of 
deriving  some  benefit  from  change  of  climate  and  scene. 

"  He  urged  me  to  return  immediately  to  London  ;  to  plead 
my  own  cause  with  Charlotte,  and  to  spend  a  few  days  with 
hira,  before  he  left  England  ;  as  he  felt,  that  it  was  more  than 
probable,  that  we  might  never  meet  again. 

"  The  last  mournful  sentence  decided  me,  and  the  next  morn- 
ing found  me  on  the  road  to  London  ;  and  I  determined  to  take 
Moncton  Park  in  my  route,  and  seek  a  reconciliation  with  Sir 
Alexander.  After  what  had  passed  between  me  and  Miss  Monc- 
ton, I  flattered  myself  that  this  would  be  an  easy  matter.     '  " '  ' 


<» 


'^ 


4 


*. 


THE     MOKCTONa 


175 


^ 


4 


"  I  was  no  longer  a  poor  orphan  boy,  dependent  upon  \ua 
bounty  ;  but  a  well-educated,  wealthy  man,  whose  fortune  was 
C(]ual,  if  not  greater  than  his  own.  Ti»nro  was  no  favor  I 
could  ask,  or  t!iat  he  could  bestow,  beyond  the  renewal  of  that 
friendship  which  formed  the  delight  of  my  boyhood,  and  of 
which  I  had  been  so  suddeidy  deprived. 

"  As  I  rode  up  the  noble  avenue  of  oaks  that  led  to  the  Hall, 
I  felt  so  confident  of  success,  so  vain  of  ray  altered  fortunes,  so 
proud  of  the  noble  horse  I  rode,  that  my  spirits  grew  buoyant, 
and  my  cheeks  glowed  with  anticipated  pleasure. 

"  *  Is  Sir  Alexander  at  home  V  I  eagerly  demanded  of  the 
liveried  servant  that  opened  the  door. 

"  '  He  is,  sir.  What  name  shall  I  send  up  V  I  gave  him  my 
card,  and  was  shown  into  the  library,  while  he  carried  it  up  to 
his  master. 

Years  had  fled  away,  since  I  last  stood  within  that  room,  a 
happy  thoughtless  boy.  How  vividly  did  every  book  and  pic- 
ture recall  the  blessed  hours  I  had  passed  there,  with  Margaret 
and  Alice,  when  the  weather  was  wet,  and  we  could  not  play 
abroad.  It  was  in  this  noble  apartment,  with  its  carved  oak 
wainscoting  and  antique  windows  of  stained  glass,  in  which  we 
generally  held  our  revels,  turning  over  the  huge  folios  in  search 
of  pictures. 

"  There  was  the  Book  of  Martyrs,  with  all  its  revolting  details 
of  human  bigotry  ;  and  its  dreadful  exhibitions  of  human  endur- 
ance amidst  scorn  and  agony.  On  these  we  gazed  in  mysterious 
awe ;  and  as  we  turned  over  the  horrible  pages,  we  said  to  one 
another,  '  that  we  were  glad  we  were  not  Christians  in  those 
days.' 

"  Then,  there  was  Descartes'  ancient  philosophy.  A  huge  tome, 
full  of  quaint  pictures  of  gods  and  goddesses,  and  angels  and 
devils,  on  which  we  were  never  tired  of  gazing  ;  infinitely  pre- 
ferring the  latter,  with  their  curious  tails  and  horns,  to  the 
former  j   whom  we    called,  '  Fat  lazy-looking    children    with 


•^WKip.^y-     ■■■■  •^fVTTTT-f- 


116 


THE     MONCTONS. 


wings.'  'Goldsmith's  World.'  'Baflfon's  Natural  History,' 
and  the  whole  family  of  Encyclopedias,  with  their  numerous 
prints,  were  among  our  chief  favorites,  and  helped  to  beguile 
the  long  wet  day.        '       *'  '  '"        *v  "  * 

'  *'  Sir  Alexaudrr  often  assisted  himself  at  these  exhibitions, 
and  seemed  as  mutb  pleased  with  showing  us  the  pictures  as  we 
were  in  looking  at  them,  .«       "  - 

'  *'  From  the  cherished  memories  of  former  years,  I  was  recalled 
by  the  entrance  of  the  servant,  who,  with  an  air  of  rude  fami- 
liarity, told  me — '  that  Sir  Alexander  Moncton  would  never  be 
at  home  to  Mister  Philip  Mornington!  ,   '    ' 

"Thunder-struck,  with  this  unexpected  blow,  and  writhing 
tinder  a  bitter  sense  of  humiliation,  I  affected  an  air  of  con- 
temptuous indifference  and  turned  to  depart ;  when  a  light  grasp 
was  laid  upon  my  arm,  and  I  encountered  the  dark  soul-lighted 
eyes  of  Margaret  Monclon,  moistened  with  tears,  and  fixed  upon 
me  with  a  gaze  of  mournful  interest. 

*' '  Stay,  Mr.  Mornington.  Dear,  Philip  I  stay,  I  beseech  you, 
for  one  little  moment.' 

"  *  Let  me  go^  Miss  Moncton.  You  deceived  me  into  the 
belief  that  my  reception  would  have  been  very  different — I  feel 
that  I  have  no  business  het  .' 

"  '  That  was  your  own  fault,  in  deferring  the  now  of  to-day,  to 
the  future  of  the  unknown  vo-morrow,'  said  Margaret,  sadly. 
'  But  you  must  stay,  I  insist  upon  your  hearing  me  speak  a  few 
words  before  you  leave  this  house.' 

''  I  remained  silent  and  passive,  and  she  continued — *  There 
was  a  time,  Philip,  when  your  sister  Margaret  would  not  have 
asked  anything  of  you  in  vain.*  The  tears  flowed  fast  down 
her  pale  cheeks,  and  I  felt  the  small  hand  that  lay  upon  my  arm 
tremble  violently. 

"  •  Dear  7'  ■  Moncton,'  I  said,  gently  leading  her  to  a  seat, 
and  taking  one  beside  her,  'you  must  make,  some  allowance 
for  mortitiect  pride  and  wounded  feelings.    Time  has  not  in  the 


«i» 


^* 


THE    UOKCTONfl. 


lit 


i^ 


«£» 


least  dimiaighed  the  affection  and  respect  I  have  ever  felt  for 
you,  and  which  your  present  kindness  is  not  at  all  likely  to  les- 
sen. I  should,  however,  be  deeply  concerned,  if  your  conde- 
scension should  draw  down  upon  you  the  displeasure  of  your 
father.' 

" '  Philip,  I  never  do  aught  which  I  should  be  ashamed  of  my 
father  witnessing.  Nothing  would  give  me  greater  pleasure, 
than  to  see  him  enter  this  room  ;  and  it  is  to  lead  you  to  him, 
that  brought  me  here.' 

"  '  He  has  once  forbidden  me  his  presence,'  I  cried,  rising  from 
my  seat — '  I  shall  seek  an  interview  with  him  no  more.' 

"  *  Let  me  seek  it  for  you.'  ;. 

" '  What  good  would  it  answer  V  .       .   ..'a 

"  '  Can  you  ask  that  question,  Mr.  Mornington  ?'  Remember 
all  you  owe  to  my  father's  kindness.  I  do  not  want  to  reproach 
you  with  benefits  which  he  felt  pleasure  in  conferring.  But 
surely,  some  feeling  of  gratitude  is  due  from  one  whom  he  loved 
for  so  many  years  as  a  son  ;  whom  I  am  certain  he  still  loves  ; 
whom,  if  he  could  once   see,  would  be  as  dear  to  him  as 


ever. 


'  f' 


*"  Could  I  feel  that  his  anger  was  just,  there  is  no  concession 
however  great,  Miss  Monton,  that  I  would  hesitate  to  make — 
I  love  and  revere  Sir  Alexander,  but  he  has  taken  up  idle  pre- 
judices against  me,  and  I  am  too  proud — obstinate,  if  you  will — 
,  to  ask  his  forgiveness  for  what  I  never  can  look  upon  as  a 
fault.'  ,  . 

"  *  One  would  think,  Philip,  that  you  were  a  Monet  /U,  so 
hard  and  obdurate  are  their  hearts,'  said  Margaret,  weeping 
afresh.  '  How  gladly  would  I  be  the  peacemaker,  and  reconcile 
you  to  each  other,  but  you  love  strife  for  its  own  sake — are  too 
proud  to  acknowledge  an  error.  Philip,'  she  cried,  passion- 
ately, *  do  you  remember  my  mother  ?' 

"  She  had  struck  a  chord  that  always  vibrated  intensely  in 
my  heart.     'How  can  I  ejer  forget  her?    And  yet,   Miss 

8*. 


-i,S: 


^ 


118 


THE     MONCTONS 


Moncton — dear  Miss  Moncton — I  do  not  wonder  at  your  asking 
the  question.'  .  .,  .  .  ,  - 

"  As  I  said  this  tears  rushed  to  my  own  eyes,  as  a  thousand 
sad  recollections  crowded  into  my  mind.  The  mournful  cham- 
ber— the  bed  of  death — the  calm,  sweet  face  of  the  expiring 
saint ;  and  her  last  solemn  injunction,  for  me  to  look  upon  her 
grave  when  I  came  to  be  a  man,  and  remember  her  who  had 
loved  me  as  a  son.  Had  I  done  this  ?  Oh,  no.  The  world 
had  obliterated  her  pure  and  holy  image  from  my  mind,  and  all 
her  tenderness  and  love  had  been  forgotten. 

"  I  stood  there  before  her  daughter,  whose  mind  was  a  perfect 
transcript  of  her  own,  a  stricken,  self-condemned  creature,  over- 
come by  emotions  which  I  struggled  in  vain  to  repress. 

"  Margaret  perceived  the  advantage  she  had  gained,  and 
taking  my  passive  hand  led  me  from  the  room. 

"  Slowly  wc  paced  up  the  marble  staircase  into  the  drawing- 
room,  v/here  we  found  Sir  Alexander  reading  at  a  table.  He 
did  not  raise  his  head  as  we  entered  ;  and  I  could  not  help 
remarking  the  great  change  that  a  few  years  had  effected  in  his 
appearance.  His  fine  chestnut  hair  was  nearly  gray,  his  cheeks 
had  lost  the  rich  vermilion  tint  which  had  always  given  such 
lustre  to  his  fine  dark  eyes,  and  clear  olive  complexion.  He 
was  much  thinner,  and  his  lofty  figure  had  taken  a  decided 
stoop  between  the  shoulders.  The  handsome,  generous  baronet 
was  but  the  wreck  of  what  he  once  had  been. 

^'  *  Papa,'  said  Margaret,  stepping  forward,  and  laying  her 
small  white  hand  upon  his  shoulder,  *  I  have  taken  the  liberty 
of  introducing  a  very  old  friend.' 

"  The  Baronet  raised  his  eyes.  The  blood  rushed  into  his 
pale  face,  as  he  replied  with  great  asperity  of  look  and  tone, 
'  Margaret,  you  have  taken  an  unfair  advantage,  and  abused  the 
confidence  I  reposed  in  you ;  I  did  not  expect  this  from 
you.' 

" '  Dearest  father,  you  have  suffered  my  cousiu  Theophilus  to 


# 


4 


THE     MONOTONS. 


179 


4| 


prejudice  you  against  one  whom  you  once  loved — whom  my  dear 
mother  loved  :  let  him  speak  for  himself."  y.^??*  **f« 

,. ,"  '  Well,  sir,'  said  the  Baronet,  holding  out  his  hand,  *  what 
have  you  to  say  in  extenuation  for  your  past  conduct  ?  You 
found  it  convenient,  no  doubt,  to  forget  an  old  friend/ 

"  *  My  excellent,  kind  benefactor,'  I  cried,  pressing  his  hand 
warmly  between  my  own,  '  how  can  you  imagine  me  guilty  of 
such  base  ingratitude  V 

"  '  I  judge  your  feelings,  young  man,  by  deeds,  not  by  words. 
It  is  not  for  a  boyish  act  of  indiscretion  I  blame  you.  You 
thrashed  an  insolent  lad  of  your  own  age  for  insulting  you  ;  and 
in  your  place  I  wOuld  have  done  the  same.  To  appease  his 
wounded  pride,  I  demanded  of  you  an  apology,  as  the  lad  was  my 
guest  and  near  kinsman — no  very  great  sacrifice  of  pride,  one 
would  have  thought,  to  a  penniless  pensioner  on  my  bounty. 
This,  you  audaciously  refused,  and,  without  waiting  for  my  anger 
to  cool  (for  I  was  not  acquainted  at  the  time  with  the  real  circum- 
stances of  the  case),  yon  abandoned  your  home,  and  sought  pro- 
tection in  the  house  of  my  enemy — a  man  who  had  thwarted  me 
in  every  way  that  lay  in  his  power.  His  favor  you  gained  by 
traducing  your  benefactor  and  friend  ;  and  you  now  come  to 
me,  after  the  lapse  of  years,  to  make  a  boast  of  your  wealth. 
Philip  Mornington  1'  he  cried,  rising  from  his  seat,  and  drawing 
himself  up  to  his  full  height,  *  I  loved  you  as  a  spirited,  inde- 
pendent boy  ;  I  despise  you  as  a  wealthy,  treacherous,  vain- 
glorious man  1' 

" '  Dear  papa,'  said  Margaret,  greatly  agitated,  '  joo  can  not 
mean  what  you  say.'  , 

"  *  I  do  mean  what  I  say.  My  words  are  plain  and  straight- 
forward ;  let  him  refute  them  if  he  can.' 

" '  To  such  accusations  as  you  have  brought  against  me,  Sir 
Alexander,'  there  can  be  but  one  answer  :  they  are  false  I  I 
will  not,  however,  dep:iean  myself  by  attempting  to  vindicate 
my  conduct  from  such  base  calumnies,  but  leave  it  to  time  to 
convince  you  of  your  error,  and  prove  my  integrity.' 


180 


THE     IfONCTONS 


.;  "  Without  waiting  for  his  reply,  I  left  the  room,  with  a  bearlnj^ 
as  haughty  and  inflexibl'^  as  his  own,  and  flinging  myself  into 
the  saddle,  rode  from  the  Hall.  Disgusted  with  myself  for 
having  yielded  tc  the  entreaties  of  my  amiable  foster-sister,  I 
could  not  master  my  indignation  sufficiently  to  call  at  the 
Lodge,  but  pursued  my  journey  to  town  with  a  heavy  heart. 

"From  Cornelius  and  his  sister  I  received  the  most  cordial  and 
aflfectionate  welcome  ;  but  my  pleasure  was  greatly  damped  by 
the  bad  state  of  my  friend's  health  :  he  looked  so  thin  and  con- 
sumptive, that  I  apprehended  the  worst.  This  impression 
gradually  wore  off ;  but  a  few  months  confirmed  my  fears.  He 
was  to  commence  his  joumey  to  Dover  early  the  next  morning  ; 
and  after  passing  a  delightt'iil  evening  in  coiiipany  with  his  aunt 
and  Charlotte,  I  rose  to  take  leave,  as  I  well  knew  that  the  dear 
invalid  retired  at  an  early  hour  to  bed. 

" '  Do  not  go  to-night,  Philip,'  he  said.  '  It  is  the  last  we 
shall  spend  for  a  long  time  together.  I  wish  to  have  a  friendly 
chat  with  you  in  my  dressing-room.  Charlotte  will  make  one 
of  the  party.' 

"  In  a  few  minutes  we  were  comfortably  seated  in  the  snug 
little  room,  before  a  cheerful  fire.  My  friend  in  his  easy-chair, 
wrapped  in  his  dressing-gown,  and  my  own  beautiful  Charlotte 
seated  on  a  gaily-embroidered  ottoman  at  his  feet. 

"  '  Here,  I  feel  myself  at  home,'  said  Cornelius,  taking  a  hand 
of  each,  and  pressing  them  warmly  between  bis  own.  *  How 
much  I  dread  this  journey  ;  how  painful  it  is  to  part  with  all 
we  love  on  earth.' 

"  '  Dearest  brother,  you  will  return  to  us  quite  strong  and  well 
after  breathing  the  warm  air  of  the  South,'  said  Charlotte,  who 
never  could  be  brought  to  consider  her  brother  in  any  danger. 
'  When  we  meet  in  the  spring,  you  will  laugh  at  your  present 
fears,  and  we  shall  be  so  happy  together.'  "  -  .  •;  ' 

"  Cornelius  smiled  faintly.  '  I  hope  it  may  be  so,  ray  sweet 
Charlotte  ;  to  that  hope  I  cling,  though  I  feel  it  daily  becoming 
more  feeble.    Nor  would  I  leave  England,  did  I  not  consider  it 


•         • 


t 


lOA 


THE     MONCTONS. 


181 


my  daty  to  embrace  every  means  which  may  tend  to  restore  me 
to  health  and  usefuhiess.  But  if  I  should  never  return,  my 
little  Lady  Bird,  the  world  will  run  on  as  merrily  as  heretofore. 
I  should  only  be  missed  by  a  few  faithful  hearts.' 

"  Poor  Charlotte  did  not  answer.  Her  head  sank  upon  his 
knee  ;  and  I  beard  the  tears,  one  by  one,  fall  upon  her  rich  silk 
dress. 

"  '  Do  not  anticipate  grief,  my  little  sister,'  he  said,  laying  his 
hand  caressingly  upon  her  drooping  head.  *  Let  us  be  happy 
to-night,  for  w~  know  not  what  the  morrow  may  bring  forth.  1 
wanted  to  speak  to  you  and  Philip  upon  a  subject  very  near  my 
heart.' 

"After  a  short  pause,  he  continued  with  a  lively,  cheerful 
voice — 

"  '  You  ana  jrwilip  love  one  another  ;  nay,  do  not  turn  away, 
Charlotte  ;  '  re  ought  to  be  no  shame  in  confessing  a  virtuous 
attachment  to  a  worthy  object.' 

"  Charlotte  raised  her  eyes,  moist  with  tears,  and  tried  to 
smile  ;  but  her  head  sank  back  to  its  resting-place,  and  her 
blushing  face  was  hidden  on  his  knee. 

"  *  Now  I  am  perfectly  satisfied  of  the  warmth  and  sincerity 
of  your  affections,  and  will  do  all  in  my  p^wer  to  bring  them  to 
a  happy  issue  ;  but  there  are  some  difficulties  in  the  way  which 
must  be  first  surmountid,  before  you  can  hope  to  realize  your 
wishes.  You  have  wealth,  Philip,  and  moral  worth  ;  these 
ought  to  be  sufficient  lo  satisfy  the  objections  of  the  most  fasti- 
dious. But  your  birth  is  obscure,  and  your  connexions  not  such 
as  most  old  families  would  wish  to  incorporate  with  their  own. 
Yo'i  will  a*k  me  how  I  came  by  this  knowledge.  It  does  not 
matter  ;  for  these  w  orldly  objections  have  no  weight  with  me. 
It  was,  however,  told  to  me  by  one  well  acquainted  with  your 
history — who,  as  guardian  to  Charlotte,  will,  I  fear,  never  con- 
sent to  your  marriage.'  '  """' 

"  *  There  are  few  persons  with  whom  I  am  sufficiently  inti- 


1^- 


183 


THE     IfONCTONS. 


:  f 


mate  to  obtain  this  knowledge,'  I  cried.  'His  name— tell  me 
his  name.' 

''  *  Robert  Moncton  —  Sir  Alexander's  cousin  and  man  of 
business.' 

"  I  felt  a  cold  shudder  thrill  through  me.  The  hopes  lately 
so  gay  and  buoyant  shrunk  back  faded  and  blackened  to  my 
heart.  *  Yet  why  should  I  fear  this  man  V  I  argued  ;  but  I  did 
fear  him — like  the  ghost  of  the  dead  Caesar  in  the  camp  of 
Brutus — he  was  my  evil  genius.  I  turned  very  faint  and  asked 
fur  a  glass  of  water. 

"  Charlotte  gave  it  to  '^ic  with  a  trembling  hand.  The  bro- 
ther and  sister  exchanged  (glances  of  surprise  ;  suspicion  was 
aroused  by  my  emotion. 

"  '  Strange  1'  said  ^^harlotte,  musingly — *  He  was  always  kind 
to  my  brother  and  u.        What  have  you  to  say  against  hiui  V 

"Not  much — bat  I  ha'"  "^  secret  antipathy — a  horror  of  this 
man,  though  I  never  saw  him  but  once,  and  that  when  quite  a 
boy.  I  had  a  quarrel  with  his  son  when  a  lad,  which  produced 
a  rupture  between  Sir  Alexander  and  me,  and  neither  father 
nor  son  ever  forgave  the  imagined  injury.' 

"  Charlotte  looked  thoughtful.  It  was  evident  that  she  was 
fond  of  her  guardian  ;  while  Cornelius  continued  the  conversa- 
tion, which  was  to  me  both  painful  and  embarrassing. 

"  *  I  know  Mr.  Moncton  to  be  implacable  when  he  takes  a 
dislike,  and  considers  him^-vli  ill-used,  but  we  always  have 
regarded  him  as  a  just  and  honest  man.  The  cir'iuraotances  at 
which  you  have  hinted,  and  which  I  am  rather  surprised,  that 
with  all  our  brotherly  intercourse,  you  never  mentioned  before, 
will  not  increase  your  chance  of  success  in  gaining  him  over  to 
your  wishes.  But  if  I  live,  Philip,  you  will  have  little  to  fear 
from  his  opposition.  Charlotte  and  myself  are  both  above  the 
common  prejudices  of  the  world,  and  prize  you  for  your  worth, 
which  we  consider  more  than  places  jou  on  an  equality  with  us, 
and  my  little  sister  here  (and  he  fondly  patted  her  head)  has 


^ 


1  ? 


THE     MOKOTONS. 


183 


too  h\fr\\  a  sense  of  honor,  to  encoarftge  hopes  which  she  never 
meaiisi  to  realize.' 

"  I  took  Charlotte's  hand — our  eyes  met.  Her  face  was 
again  bidden  on  her  brother's  knee  ;  bat  my  drooping  heart 
began  to  revive,  and  I  turned  to  listen  to  the  long  harangue  of 
my  good  friend  with  more  interest  and  attention,  especially,  as 
Charlotte's  small  white  hand  remained  firmly  clasped  in  mine,  to 
repay  me  for  its  dullness  and  prolixity. 

"  *  Now,  my  advice  to  you  both  is,  not  to  enter  into  any 
engagement,  and  to  keep  the  matter  of  your  affections  known 
only  to  yourselves.  Confidence  reposed  in  a  third  party  is 
always  hazardous,  and  generally  betrayed.  This  will  lull  Monc- 
ton's  suspicions,  for  he  can  greatly  annoy  you,  should  you  marry 
Charlotte  without  his  consent,  before  her  minority  expires.  Her 
property,  which  is  considerable,  would  then  go  to  a  distant 
relation.' 

"'I  have  enough  to  support  us  both  handsomely  —  why 
should  our  union  be  delayed  on  that  score  V  I  cried. 

*' '  Softly,  my  dear  friend.  Lovers  always  talk  in  that  strain 
— ^husbands  think  difi'erently.  Why  should  Charlotte  lose  her 
just  inheritance  to  gratify  the  ardor  of  your  passion  ?  You  are 
both  young — Charlotte,  far  too  young  to  marry.  Four  years  is 
not  such  a  great  while  to  wait.  At  the  expiration  of  that  time 
you  can  meet  on  equal  terms,  without  making  such  an  enormous 
sacrifice.     Am  I  not  right  ?'  '        9*j* 

"  We  said  he  was,  and  tried  to  think  so,  but  I  am  certain 
that  'n  the  estimation  of  both  his  listeners,  that  that  four  years 
which  seemed  to  him  so  short,  with  us,  spread  over  a  period  as 
long  as  the  life  of  Methusalah.  We  tried  to  look  forward,  but 
shrunk  back  to  the  present.  Everything  in  prospective  looked 
cold,  blank-r-nay,  even  'jgly  and  old,  at  the  end  of  the  long  vista 
offourvears.      ""'  '    '  """■■      '     ""  '"  '        * 

"  We  promised,  however,  to  abide  by  his  advice.  I  was  sad 
and  low  spirited-— and  Charlotte,  pleading  a  bad  head-ache, 


»IWlHWW«HWJW<llLHy-'»!JMl!tTe.Tgl*y— 


184 


THE     IIONCTO  NS 


M 


kissed  her  brother,  received  one  from  mc,  or  what,  in  his  esti- 
mation, only  passed  for  one,  and  retired  in  tears,  and  I  felt  that 
the  joy  of  my  heart  had  vanished. 

•' '  Do  not  look  so  grave,  Philip,'  said  my  worthy  friend. 
•You  will  overcome  all  these  difficulties.' 

"  I  shook  my  head  and  sighed  doubtfully. 

*"  I  am  sure  you  will.  I  have  a  presentiment  to  that  effect. 
I  saw  you  in  a  dream  last  night,  surrounded  by  a  thousand  dan- 
gers. As  fast  as  you  got  out  of  some  trouble,  you  fell  into  a 
worse,  and  after  I  had  given  you  up  for  lost,  you  were  rescued 
from  the  fangs  of  a  tiger  by  a  mere  lad,  who  led  you  back  to 
Charlotte,  and  joined  your  hands.' 

"  He  told  this  with  such  earnestness,  that  I,  who  was  no 
believer  in  signs  and  omens,  laughed  outright. 

"  He  looked  serious — almost  offended. 

"  '  You  forget,'  he  said,  '  that  when  man  draws  near  his  end, 
God  often  opens  the  eyes  of  the  soul  and  reveals,  not  only  what 
is — but  what  shall  be.  Oh,  Philip,  you  who  are  so  eager  to 
win  the  affections  of  a  timid  girl,  how  can  you  be  so  indifferent 
to  the  love  of  God  V 

"  *  Nervous  debility  has  rendered  you  superstitious,  Cornelius. 
I  have  no  faith  in  the  religious  cant  of  the  present  day,  in  priests 
or  priestcraft.' 

"  '  Tbis  was  my  case  two  years  ago.  I  was  young  and  strong 
then.  In  the  possession  of  wealth  and  all  those  temporal  bles- 
sings, for  which  wiser  and  better  men  have  to  toil  through  a 
long  life,  and  seldom  obtain.  The  world  was  before  me,  and 
death  far  distant,  in  my  thoughts.  But  now,  the  world  is 
receding,  and  death  is  very  near.  You  start  I  Have  not  rou 
discovered  that  truth  before  ?  Soon,  very  soon,  nothing  will 
remain  for  me,  but  that  blessed  hope  which  I  now  prize  as  the 
only  true  riches.  I  am  happy  in  the  prospect  which  I  know 
awaits  me,  and  consider  those  only  miserable  to  whom  God  is  a 
stranger,  and  the  love  of  the  Saviour  unknown.' 


THE     M  0  N  C  T  0  K  8  . 


185 


"  His  words  aflfected  me  strangely,  and  yet  I  felt  that  they 
were  distasteful.  Sorrow  had  not  taught  mo  the  ki.owledge  of 
self.  I.  had  yet  to  learn  that  religion  alone  can  do  that.  My 
soul  was  grovelling  in  the  dust  ;  my  thoughts  wholly  engrossed 
by  the  world.  Religion  was  to  me  a  well-invented  fable,  skill- 
fully constructed  and  admirably  tola,  v.^ing  beautiful  ind  artis- 
tic in  a  literary  point  of  view,  but  ai together  too  shallow  to 
satisfy  the  reason  of  a  clever  fellow  like  me.  Oh,  how  repug- 
nant are  its  pure  precepts  to  those  whose  hearts  are  blinded  by 
vanity  ;  who  live  but  for  the  pleasures  of  the  day^  and  never 
heed  the  to-morrow  in  the  skies. 

"  I  sat  down  at  a  table  near  my  friend,  and  began  hastily  to 
turn  over  the  pages  of  a  volume  that  lay  bf-for  me.  It  con- 
tained the  admirable  w-'fiugs  of  the  Rev.  Robert  II all.  I  pet- 
tishly closed  the  book,  I'd  pushed  it  from  me. 

"  As  I  raised  my  head,  our  eyes  met.  He  evidently  read  my 
thoughts.  ^ 

*"  I  do  not  wish  to  lecture  you,  Philip,  nor  do  I  condemn  you. 
Tour  mind,  in  its  present  uuawakened  state,  cannot  understand 
the  sublime  truths  you  affect  to  despise.  The  bll^d  see  not ; 
they  cannot  comprehend  the  light>  and  we  are  not  sur^Tised  that 
they  stumble  and  fall.  But  I  love  you  too  well,  Philip,  to  wish 
you  to  remain  in  this  state  of  mental  darkness.  Read  the  Bible 
with  the  eyes  of  faith  ;  think  and  pray,  and  the  tvv  light  will 
dawn  upon  your  soul,  as  it  has  on  mine.  Let  not  the  ;'aviug8 
of  fanaticism,  nor  the  vulgarity  of  low  cant,  frighten  you  from 
the  enjoyment  of  the  highest  and  noblest  privilege  granted  to 
man — the  capacity  of  holding  converse  with  his  God.  And,  now, 
farewell,  my  dear  friend.  I  shall  see  you  again  in  th.^  morning  ; 
think  over  twice  what  I  have  said  to  you  before  /ju  go  to 
sleep.'         ,      <      .  v.   . 

-.  .  *'  I  retired  to  my  chamber,  but  not  to  rest.  I  sat  before  the 
fire,  musing  over,  and  trying  to  feel  an  interest  in,  the  advice  of 
my  friend;  I  knew  it  was  good  ;  I  felt  it  was  right  and  very 


• 


n-  WMVMVaM 


?^iii^fiiV1 


1B6 


THR     M0VCT0N8 


natural,  for  Corneliusi,  in  his  diseased  state,  to  regard  it  as  a  sub- 
ject of  vital  importance,  to  cherish  it  as  the  last  hope  that  could 
beguile  his  raind,  and  reconcile  him  to  the  avvf'^l  anrl  mysterious 
change  which  awaited  li'U.  'Poor  Cornelia.  '  i  saiil,  'dying 
men  catch  at  straws  ;  will  your  stra'v  float  you  safely  across 
the  waves  of  the  dark  river  ?  I  fear  not.'  And  in  this  mood  I 
went  to  bed,  dreamt  of  Charlotte,  and  awoke  in  the  morning  to 
regret  the  long  years  which  must  intervene  before  she  could  bo 
mine." 


i 


-*►- 


4-r,: 


CHAPTER    XIX. 


Light  come,  light  go. 


Old  Pxotxrb. 


"  The  next  day,  my  friend  bade  us  adieu.  Had  he  expressed 
the  least  wish  to  that  effect,  I  would  have  accompanied  him  to 
the  South — but  he  did  not,  and  we  parted,  never  to  meet  again. 
He  died  abroad,  and  Charlotte  became  the  inheritor  of  his  large 
fortune.  Her  grief  for  the  loss  of  he  brother  affected  her 
health  and  spirits  to  such  an  alarmm<i:  lu'igTee,  that  instant 
change  of  air  and  scene  was  recommended  by  her  physician,  and 
she  left  London  to  spend  some  months  with  her  aunt  on  the 
Continent.  I  would  have  gladly  made  one  in  their  party,  but 
this  she  forbade  me  to  do  in  the  most  positive  terms. 

"I  fancied  that  her  manner  to  me  had  grown  cold  and 
distant  during  the  separation  that  had  intervened  between  her 
brother's  death  and  the  severe  illness  that  followed  the  announce- 
ment of  that  melancholy  event.  These  fears  were  confirmed  by 
a  long  and  very  prudential  letter  from  her  aunt,  entreating  me, 
as  a  mutual  friend,  not  to  follow  them  to  Italy,  as  it  might  be 
attended  by  unpleasant  results  to  Miss  Laurie,  who  was  still 
very  yonng — too  young,  in  her  estimation,  to  acknowledge  pub- 


II 


•i*-i 


THE     UONOTONS. 


18*7 


-born 

itch 

'-tter 

of 


licly  an  .  ceptod  lover  ;  that  ns  no  actual  engagement  existed 
betwec -  us,  she  thought  it  most  advisable  for  both  parties  only 
to  regard  each  otlier  in  the  light  of  friends,  until  the  expiration 
of  the  time  wliich  would  make  Miss  Laurie  the  mistress  of  her 
hand  and  fortune.  It  was  impossible  to  mistake  the  purport  of 
this  letter,  which  I  felt  certain  must  have  been  sanctioned  by 
her  niece.  Then,  and  not  until  then,  was  I  fully  aware  of  all 
I  had  lost  by  the  death  of  my  poor  friend. 

"  Charlotte  had  repented  of  her  affection  for  ' 
Philip  Mornington.     She  was  a  great  heiress  now,  n' 
for  the  first  nobleman  in  the  kingdom.     I  crush    i 
beneath  my  feet,  and  felt  within  ray  breast  the  exti 
hope. 

"  I  suspected  that  Robert  Moncton  and  his  son  were  at  the 
bottom  of  this  unexpected  movement ;  nor  was  I  mistaken.  It 
was  strange,  that  among  the  whole  range  of  my  acquaintance,  I 
had  never  been  introduced  to  this  rascal  and  his  son,  or  met  him 
accidentally  at  any  place  of  public  resort.  They  effectually 
worked  my  ruin,  but  it  was  in  the  dark. 

"  The  loss  of  Charlotte  made  me  reckless  of  the  future.  I 
plunged  headlong  into  all  sorts  of  dissipation  :  wine,  women, 
the  turf,  the  gaming-table,  by  turns  intoxicated  my  brain,  and 
engrossed  my  time  and  thoughts,  until  repeated  losses  to  an 
alarming  amount,  made  me  restless  and  miserable,  without  in 
the  least  checking  the  growing  evil.  I  had  forfeited  self  respect, 
and  with  it  the  moral  courage  to  resist  temptation. 

"  I  was  goaded  on  in  my  career  of  guilt  by  a  young  man  of 
fascinating  person  and  manners,  but  of  depraved  habits  and 
broken  fortunes.  From  the  first  night  that  I  was  introduced  to 
William  Howard,  he  expressed  for  me  the  deepest  respect  and 
friendship,  and  haunted  me  subsequently  like  my  shadow.  He 
flattered  my  vanity  by  the  most  sedulous  attentions,  echoed  my 
sentiments,  hung  upon  my  words,  copied  my  style  of  dress,  and 
Imitated  my  manners. 


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.   \ 


188 


THS     H0N0T0K8 . 


*  "  These  arts  might  have  failed  in  producing  the  desired  effect, 
had  he  not  wound  himself  into  my  confidence,  by  appearing  to 
sympathize  in  my  mental  sufferings.  He  talked  of  Charlotte, 
and  endeavored  to  soothe  my  irritated  feelings,  by  expressing 
the  most  sanguine  hopes  of  my  ultimate  success;  and,  to  dissipate 
the  melancholy  that  preyed  upon  my  health  and  spirits,  he  led 
me  by  degrees  to  mix  with  the  reckless  and  profligate,  and  to 
find  pleasure  in  the  society  of  individuals  whom  I  could  not 
respect,  and  from  whose  proximity  a  few  months  before  I  should 
have  shrunk  with  disgust  and  aversion.  ?<  sf*,-  *,  wt  rwT  "' 
<■•  "A  young  fellow  just  beyond  his  minority  is  easily  led  astray, 
particularly,  when  he  has  wealth  at  his  command,  and  no  settled 
employment  or  profession  to  engage  his  time  and  thoughts,  and, 
worse  still,  no  religious  principles  to  guide  him  in  his  perilous 
voyage  across  the  treacherous  ocean  of  life.  ,(7i;'i»h  isu 

"  Alas,  Geoffrey  1  I  chose  for  my  pilot  one  who  had  not 
only  ruined  himself,  but  caused  the  shipwreck  of  others,  superior 
in  prudence  and  intelligence,  to  the  man  who  now  trusted  to  his 
ad\  ice  and  believed  him  a  friend. 

"  When  I  look  back  to  that  disastrous  period  of  my  life,  my 
soul  shrinks  within  itself,  and  I  lament  my  madness  with  unceas- 
ing  bitterness.  All  that  I  have  since  suffered,  appears  but  a  just 
retribution  for  those  three  years  of  vice  and  folly.  Little  did  I 
then  suspect,  that  my  quondam  friend  was  an  infamous  sharper, 
bribed  by  the  still  more  infamous  Robert  Moncton  to  lure  me 
to  destruction. 

"  In  spite  of  her  aunt's  prohibition,  I  had  continued  to  write 
to  Miss  Laurie  ;  at  first,  frequently,  seldom  many  days  elapsing 
between  letter  and  letter,  but  to  my  surprise  and  indignation, 
not  one  of  m/  communications  had  been  answered,  although 
breathing  the  most  ardent  attachment,  and  dictated  by  a  passion 
as  sincere  as  ever  animated  a  human  breast.  What  could  be 
the  canse  of  this  cruel  neglect?  I  called  repeatedly  at 
Mrs. '8  house  in  town,  but  was  constantly  told  by  the  old 


..\. 


THE    MON0TON8. 


189 


'■■   -Mi 


housekeeper,  who  received  me  very  coldly,  that  Miss  Lanne  and 
her  aunt  were  still  on  the  continent. 

"  As  long  as  this  miserable  state  of  uncertainty  continued,  I 
clung  to  hope,  and  maintained  the  character  of  a  man  of  honor 
and  a  gentleman.  But  the  insidious  tempter  was  ever  at  hand, 
to  exaggerate  my  distress,  and  to  weaken  my  good  resolutions. 
Howard  laughed  at  my  constancy  to  a  false  mistress,  and  by 
degrees,  led  me  to  consider  myself  as  a  very  ill-used  man,  and 
Miss  Laurie  as  a  heartless  coquette.      •  •  •  »'  •• '-  f'»^^»» 

"  Two  years  had  elapsed  since  the  death  of  Cornelius  ;  and  I 
was  just  ready  to  accompany  a  party  of  gay  young  fellows  to 
Newmarket,  when  I  was  told  accidentally,  that  Miss  Laurie, 
the  great  heiress,  had  arrived  in  town,  and  the  young  men  were 
laughing  and  speculating  upon  the  chance  of  winning  her  and 

her  fortune.  ■■■:[''!<.    si.^el^^^!  <•      •!■■>. .■..''"ftr::i..     it;  ,^   .t^-;,./^    ■r^i^i^iJ!'^ 

Jo"  *  They  say  she's  a  beauty  1'  cried  one.  .-.iwj  b  j^:L. 

"  '  Beauty  won't  pay  debts,'  said  another.  '  I  can't  afford  to 
marry  for  love.'  .'U  4.n:l*;  ':iuiiif^is  ^^j   ••.v/'-*!  t^»:ui^^ !(•«  f^"'«fe»^^^*»?  rd 

" '  A  plain  girl  with  her  property  is  sure  to  be  handsome. 
Beauty  and  gold  are  too  much  to  fall  to  the  share  of  one  person. 
I  dare  say,  she's  only  passable.'  -^  ;  m  .  .  :  «  .  r^it^wiri^^h:?^ 
^?"'Sour  grapes,  Hunter,'  said  Howard.     'You  know  that 

you  are~such  a  ugly  fellow,  that  no  woman,  with  or 

without  a  fortune,  would  take  you  for  better  or  worse.'  u  iv»#^5 
- 1  *^*  Better  is  out  of  the  question,  Howard,  and  he  can't  be 
well  worse,'  said  the  first  speaker.  '  But  I  should  like  to  know 
if  Miss  Laurie  is  really  the  beauty  they  say  she  is.  Money  is  a 
thing  to  possess — to  enjoy — to  get  rid  of.  But  beauty  is  a 
divinity.    I  may  covet  the  one — but  I  adore  the  other.' 

" '  You  may  do  both  then,  at  a  humble  distance,  George. 
But  here's  Philip  Mornington,  can  satisfy  all  your  queries — he 
knows — and  used  to  feel  an  interest  in  the  young  lady.' 

'*  To  hear  her  name  in  such  company,  was  to  me  profanation. 
I  made  some  ungracious  reply  to  what  I  considered  an  imper- 


'.•rr.''  *■■*>''-''', fTif; 


^■'^^r^'^i'^siy'i 


190 


THE     MONCTONS. 


tinent  observation  of  Howard's,  and  feigning  some  improbable 
excuse  for  absenting  myself  from  the  party,  I  turned  my  horse's 
head^  and  rode  back  to  my  lodgings,  in  spite  of  several  large 
bets  that  I  had  pending  upon  a  favorite  horse.  «i.i.r^..uw. 

i^<  "  Charlotte  was  in  London,  and  I  could  not  rest  until  I  had 
learned  my  fate  from  her  own  lips.   '-  .**-*atvrt  «!«  i  j.fir  i4?«a»Mi^ 
"*'  "  I  hastened  to  her  aunt's  residence ;  and,  contrary  to  my 
expectations,  on  sending  up  my  card,  I  was  instantly  admitte*) 
to  her  presence.  ■■■}r».'^i.  «•  t  tvo*-i.*i*y  a^^r  1,4  ast^ 

*  "She  was  alone  in  the  drawing-room.  The  slight  girl  of 
seventeen  was  now  a  beautiful  and  graceful  woman  ;  intelligence 
beaming  from  her  eyes,  and  the  bloom  of  health  upon  her  cheek. 
As  I  approached  the  table  at  which  she  was  seated,  she  rose  to 
meet  me,  and  the  color  receded  so  fast  from  her  face  that  I 
\cured  she  would  faint,  and  instead  of  addressing  me  with  her 
usual  frankness,  she  turned  away  her  head  and  burst  into 
tears.  ■^^■*^" ''^•'' *'■"'-''•''■■ ''^■■■''"''**'^''*'*"^ -■■'i  '■^'"  'vi^f  ^ww^s-^  "!V'*=R>fc,'':^!;t«'5■ 
"You  may  imagine  my  distress — I  endeavored  to  take  her 
hand,  but  she  drew  proudly  back.  -;  -  .       t  'i:  r    • 

'-  "' Is  this  Charlotte  ?'     "■'*  "-        -■  '-^^-  ■  '^'•^'■•■"i   '-*'iv  :'mi^ 
I  ■  "  '  Rather  let  me  ask — is  this  Philip  Mornington — my  bro- 
ther's friend  V  she  spoke  with  a  degree  of  severity  that  aston- 
ished me — :'  the  man  for  whom  I  once  entertained  the  deepest 
respect  and  affection.'  ''^''  m»..si-.^-4v^->  k.,?^-:.'  :.:ii,j&;:',!:s  %   rmm.nB 

"  *  Which  implies  that  you  do  so  no  longer  V    '■^'>      **-^-    ' 
*'  "*  You  have  rightly  guessed.' -<^*^  •  •-    -  ^        ;  ,  ;;         *    ^ 
"  '  And  may  I  ask  Miss  Laurie  why  she  has  seen  fit  to  change 
the  opinion  she  once  entertained  ?'     «      v.     .-«  ^,»w*     ?  »**•  ^^ 
-  "'Mr.  Mornington,' she  said,  firmly,  repressing  the  emotion 
which  convulsed  her  lips  and  glistened  in  her  eyes,  '  I  have  long 
wished  to  see  you,  to  hear  from  your  own  lips  an  explanation  of 
your  extraordinary  conduct,  and  though  this  meeting  must  be 
our  last,  I  could  not  part  with  you  for  ever,  until  I  had  con* 
viuced  you  that  the  separation  was  e£fected  by  yourself.'  ^  v-r'^  - 


.,,, 


THB    MON0TON8. 


191 


"  '  It  will  be  difficult  to  prove  that,'  I  said,  '  if  yon  really 
sanctioned  your  aunt's  letter,  and  were  privy  to  its  contents.'    » 

"  '  It  was  written  at  my  request,'  she  replied,  with  provoking 
coldness.  'Mr.  Moncton's  suspicions  were  aroused,  and  your 
following  us  to  the  continent  would  have  confirmed  them,  and 
rendered  us  both  miserable.  But  my  motives  for  requesting  a 
temporary  separation,  were  fully  discussed  in  my  letter  which 
accompanied  the  one  written  by  my  aunt.  To  this  reasonable 
request  you  returned  no  answer,  nor,  iu  fact,  to  several  subse- 
quent letters  which  were  written  during  our  absence  abroad.' 

"I  trembled  with  agitation  while  she  was  speaking,  and  I 
fear  that  she  misinterpreted  my  emotion.    ,w,   ».     is.>,   ,'^**'/fcr-  - 

"  '  Good  Heavens  1'  I  exclaimed  at  last,  '  how  grossly  have  I 
deceived  myself  into  the  belief  that  you  never  wrote  to  me — that 
you  cast  me  from  you  without  one  word  of  pity  or  remorse.  I 
never  got  a  line  from  you,  Charlotte.  Your  aunt's  cruel  letter 
came  only  too  soon,  and  was  answered  too  promptly;  and  to  the 
many  I  have  written  to  you  since,  you  did  not  deign  a  reply.'  v 

"  '  They  never  reached  us,  Mr.  Mornington  ;  and  it  is  strange 
that  these  letters  (which  to  me  were,  at  least,  matters  of  no 
small  importance)  should  be  the  or^y  ones  among  the  numbers 
addressed  to  us  by  other  friends,  that  miscarried.' 

*'  I  was  stung  by  the  incredulous  air  with  which  she  spoke — 
it  was  so  unlike  my  own  simple,  frank-hearted  Charlotte.    «.i-.  > 

"  '  Miss  Laurie,  you  doubt  my  word  ?' 

"  '  A  career  of  vice  and  folly,  Mr.  Moinington,  has  made  me 
doubt  your  character.  While  I  could  place  confidence  in  the  otie 
1  never  suspected  deceit  in  the  other.' 

" '  Your  silence,  Charlotte,  drove  me  to  desperation,  and 
involved  me  in  the  dissipation  to  which  you  allude.' 

"  *  A  man  of  integrity  could  not  so  easily  be  warped  from  the 
path  of  dnty :'  she  said  this  proudly.  '  1  can  no  longer  love  one 
whom  I  have  ceased  to  respect,  whose  conduct,  for  the  last  two 
years,  has  made  me  regret  that  we  ever  met.' 


■  .[ 


mmmmmmmmm 


192 


THB    MOKOTOKS. 


" '  You  are  too  severe,  Miss  Laurie/  and  I  felt  the  blood  rush 
to  my  face.  '  You  should  take  into  account  all  I  have  suffered 
for  your  sake.* 

"  *  You  found  a  strange  method  of  alleviating  those  suffer- 
ings, Philip.'  This  was  said  sadly,  but  with  extreme  bitterness. 
'  Had  you  loved  or  cherished  me  in  your  memory,  you  never 
could  have  pursued  a  course  of  conduct  so  diametrically  oppo- 
site to  my  wishes.' 

"  This  was  a  home-thrust.  I  felt  like  a  guilty  and  con- 
demned creature,  debased  in  my  own  eyes,  and  humbled  before 
the  woman  I  adored. 

"I  felt  that  it  was  useless  to  endeavor  to  defend  myself 
against  her  just  accusations  ;  yet,  I  could  not  part  with  her, 
without  one  struggle  more  for  forgiveness,  and  while  I  acknow- 
ledged and  bitterly  lamented  my  past  errors,  I  pleaded  for 
mercy  with  the  most  passionate  eloquence.  I  promised  to 
abjure  all  my  idle  companions  and  vicious  habits,  and  devote 
the  rest  of  my  life  entirely  to  her.  -'^      '-^  -  -  •  •«  '-    '''^***^ 

"  She  listened  to  me  with  tearful  earnestness,  but  remained 
firm  to  her  purpose,  that  we  were  to  part  there  fur  ever,  and 
only  remember  each  other  as  strangers.  .  r  i-«*wiA«  H>fW 

)  "  Her  obstinacy  rendered  me  desperate.  I  forgot  the  prOf 
vocation  I  had  given  her  by  my  wicked  and  reckless  course.  I 
reproached  her  as  the  cause  of  all  my  crimes.  Accused  her  of 
fickleness  and  cruelty,  and  called  Heaven  to  witness,  how  little 
I  merited  her  displeasure.     ^^  ^"^  ^  -^  '^^^■*^    •«  f^'      r  t 

"  Her  gentle  feminine  brow  was  overcast ;  her  countenance 
grew  dark  and  stern.  *  j*?  »  .  i.    -  »;.  ri  ^^;6-i^>^*^l 

"  *  These  are  awful  charges,  Mr.  Mornington.  Permit  me  to 
ask  you  a  few  questions,  in  my  turn,  and  answer  them  briefly 
and  without  evasion.'      -'V 'i-'*rjs   :#^i«:si.'>i»- .s»-."><^«;>»^*.*f  %-»^'  •■ - 

"  I  gazed  in  silent  astonishment  upon  her  kindling  face.      '  ^ 
:    "  ♦  Are  you  in  the  habit  of  frequenting  the  gaming-table  ? — 
Tea,  or  no.'  '..('■^j-.-'f      ii,^^'<'^:i^m*>i-:i^'itp^'«!^-f^p^^^.x- 


'"*"'""""-*'-■*— ''"'"'^^f'''**''*"    ■"'  '         i..r-     ....      ■■      ..vw  -■„.. 


J  ? 


THE    MONOTONS. 


193 


t 


"  My  eyes  involuntarily  shrunk  from  hers.  "      '    '  •  ^  • 
"*  The  race-course  ?'  ....    .   .  ,   ^,,      • 

"  '  I  must  confess  to  both  these  charges/  I  stammered  out. 
'But' •  ^    ■.-,  .-    •- —       •- ■•    ^v-j^Tf '»-if".>-. 

"  *  For  such  conduct  there  can  be  no  excuse.  It  is  not  amid 
such  scenes  that  I  would  look  for  the  man  I  love.'     '  •*  t     ' 

" '  Cease,  Charlotte,  in  mercy  cease,  if  you  do  not  mean  to 
drive  me  mad.  Some  enemy  has  poisoned  your  mind  against 
me.  Left  to  yourself,  you  could  not  condemn  me  in  this  cold, 
pitiless  manner.* 

"  *  Your  own  lips  have  condemned  you,  Philip.'  She  stopped, 
passed  her  hand  across  her  brow,  as  if  in  sudden  pain,  and 
sighed  deeply.  . 

"  '  When  will  these  reproaches  end,  Charlotte  ?  Of  what  else 
do  you  accuse  me  ?' 

"  '  Is  what  I  have  said,  false  or  true  ?'  she  cried,  turning  sud- 
denly towards  me,  and  grasping  my  arm.  *  If  false,  clear  your- 
self.   If  true,  what  more  can  I  have  to  do  with  you  ?' 

" '  Alas,'  I  cried, '  it  is  but  too  true  1' 

"  *  And  can  you  expect,  Mr.  Mornington,  that  any  virtuous, 
well-educated  woman  could  place  her  happiness  in  the  keeping 
of  one  who  has  shown  such  little  self-government ;  who  chooses 
for  his  associates  men  of  loose  morals  and  bad  character.  Tour 
constant  companion  and  bosom  friend  is  a  notorious  gambler, 
a  man  whose  society  is  scouted  by  all  honorable  men.  I  pity 
you,  Philip  ;  weep  for  you  ;  pray  for  you  ;  and  God  only  knows 
the  agony  which  this  hour  has  cost  me  ;  but  we  must  meet  as 
lovers  and  friends  no  more.' 

"  She  glided  from  the  room,  and  I  stood  for  some  minutes 
stupidly  staring  after  her,  with  the  horrible  consciousness  of 
having  exchanged  a  pearl  of  great  price,  for  the  base  coin  in 
which  pleasure  pays  her  deluded  followers,  and  only  felt  the 
inestimable  value  of  the  treasure  I  had  lost,  when  it  was  no 
longer  in  my  power  to  recover  it. 

9 


194 


THB     UONOTONS. 


"  I  returned  to  the  company  I  had  quitted.  I  betted  and 
lost ;  plunged  madly  on  ;  staked  my  whole  property  on  a  des- 
perate chance,  and  returned  from  the  races,  forsaken  by  my  gay 
companions,  a  heart-broken  and  ruined  man. 

"  It  was  night  when  I  reached  London.  Not  wishing  to 
encounter  any  of  my  late  associates,  I  entered  a  cofifee-house 
seldom  frequented  by  men  of  their  class,  and  called  for  a  bottle 
of  wine. 

"  The  place  was  ill-lighted  and  solitary.  I  threw  myself  into 
a  far  corner  of  ray  box,  and,  for  the  first  time — for  I  never  was 
a  drinker — tried  to  drown  care  in  the  intoxicating  bowl. 

"  The  wine,  instead  of  soothing,  only  increased  the  fever  of  my 
spirit,  and  I  began  to  review  with  bitterness  the  insanity  of  my 
conduct  for  the  last  few  months.  With  a  brain  on  fire  with  the 
wine  I  continued  eagerly  to  swallow,  and  a  heart  as  dull  and 
cold  as  ice  from  recent  mortification  and  disappointment,  I  sank 
with  my  head  upon  the  table  into  a  sort  of  waking  trance,  con- 
scious of  surrounding  objects,  but  unable  to  rouse  myself  from 
the  stupor  which  held  every  faculty  in  its  leaden  grasp. 

"  Two  men  entered  the  box.  I  heard  o^e  say  to  tljQ  other, 
in  a  voice  which  seemed  familiar.  Mjn 

"  '  This  place  is  occupied;  we  had.  better 'go  to  another.' 

"  '  The  fellow's  drunk,'  returned  his  companion,  *  and  may  be 
considered  as  non  compos.  He  has  lost  all  knowledge  of  him- 
self, and  therefore  can  take  no  notice  of  us.' 

"  Feeling  little  interest  in  anything  beyond  my  own  misery,  I 
gave  no  signs  of  life  or  motion,  beyond  pressing  my  burning 
brow  more  tightly  against  my  folded  hands,  which  rested  on  the 
table.  •     ^      •■  -4    

"  '  So,  Mornington's  career  is  ended  at  last,  and  he  is  a  roiQed 
man,' said  the  elder  of  the  twain.  •-       ,.>.,...,; 

" '  Yes,  I  have  settled  his  business  for  you  j  and  as  my 
success  has  been  great,  I  expect  my  reward  should  be  propor- 


tionably  so,' 


.inK.    t.5,V'«f.v   b''n    -kSC'l- 


/ 


THE    KONOTONS . 


196 


"  '  I  am  ready  to  fulfill  my  promise,  but  expect  nothing  more. 
Ton  have  been  well  paid  by  your  dupe.  He  haa  realized  the 
old  proverb — Light  come,  light  go.  I  thought  he  would  have 
given  you  more  trouble.  Yours,  Howard,  has  been  an  easy 
victory.' 

" '  Hang  the  foolish  fellow!'  cried  my  quondam  fri«nd  ; '  I  feel 
some  qualms  of  conscience  about  him — he  was  so  warm-hearted 
and  generous — so  unsuspicious,  that  I  feel  as  if  I  had  been 
guilty  of  a  moral  murder.  And  what,  Mr.  Moncton,  must  be 
your  feelings — your  hatred  to  the  poor  young  man  is  almost 
gratuitous,  when  it  appears  that  you  are  personally  unknown  to 
each  other.* 

"  '  He  is  the  son  of  my  worst  enemy,  and  I  will  pursue  him  to 
death.' 

"  'He  will  spare  you  the  trouble,  if  I  read  my  man  rightly. 
He  will  not  submit  to  this  sudden  change  of  fortune  with  stoical 
indifference,  but  will  finish  a  career  of  folly  with  an  act  of 
madness/ 

"*  Commit  suicide  1' 

" '  Ay,  put  a  pistol  to  his  head.  He  is  an  infidel,  and  will 
not  be  scared  from  his  purpose  by  any  fear  of  an  hereafter.' 

"  '  Bring  me  that  piece  of  news  to-morrow,  Howard,  and  it 
will  be  something  to  stake  at  hazard  before  night.' 

"  He  left  the  box  ;  I  rose  to  prevent  him,  but  the  opportu- 
nity of  revenge  was  lost.  The  younger  scoundrel  remained 
behind  to  settle  with  the  waiter  ;  as  he  turned  round  I  con- 
fronted and  stared  him  full  in  the  face.  He  pretended  not  to 
know  who  I  was. 

"  '  Fellow,  let  me  pass  1' 

"  'Never  1  until  you  have  received  the  just  reward  of  your 
treachery.  You  are  a  mean,  contemptible  wretch — the  base 
hireling  of  a  baser  villain.  I  will  prosecute  you  both  for  enter- 
ing into  a  conspiracy  against  me.' 

"  '  You  had  better  let  it  alone,'  he  said,  in  a  hoarse  whisper. 


„r.7'iiVi.*;».i'.-~>..-41.':i?^-i»-'''" 


IW 


TUB     HONOTONB 


I: 


'You  are  a  disappointed  and  desperate  man.  No  sensible  per- 
son will  listen  to  complaints  made  by  a  drunken,  broken-down 
spendthrift  and  gambler.'     -     *   •  '    »^s^- >  ••     -     -   >}>/i«i  * 

"  '  Liar  1'  I  cried,  losing  all  self-control,  '  when  did  you  ever 
see  me  drank,  or  knew  me  guilty  of  one  dishonorable  act  V    f- 

" '  You  were  always  too  great  a  fool,  Mornington,  to  take 
care  of  yourelf,  and  you  are  not  able,  at  this  moment,  to  stand 
steady.  Be  that,  however,  as  it  may,  I  never  retract  my 
words — if  you  require  satisfaction,  you  know  where  to  find 


me.' 


You 


" '  I  will  neither  meet  nor  treat  you  as  a  gentleman, 
are  beneath  contempt.' 

" '  The  son  of  a  drunken  huntsman  has  a  greater  claim  to 
gentility,'  sneered  the  sharper,  bursting  into  an  insulting  laugh. 
'  Your  mother  may,  perhaps,  have  given  you  an  indirect  claim 
to  a  higher  descent.'  •       •      '  -<■     *  ^^  '■"  <    »  ^f^rirs 

''This  taunt  stung  me  to  madness,  and  sobered  me  in  a 
moment.  I  flung  myself  headlong  upon  him.  I  was  young  and 
strong — the  attack  unexpected,  he  fell  heavily  to  the  ground. 
In  my  fury  I  spat  upon  him,  and  trampled  him  beneath  my  feet. 
Death,  I  felt  was  too  honorable  a  punishment  for  such  a 
contemptible  villain.  I  would  not  have  killed  him  though  cer- 
tain that  no  punishment  would  follow  the  act. 

"The  people  of  the  house  interfered-  I  was  taken  into 
custody  and  kept  in  durance  vile  until  the  following  morning  ; 
but  as  no  one  appeared  to  make  any  charge  against  me,  I  was 
released,  with  a  severe  reprimand  from  the  police  magistrate,  and 
suffered  to  return  home. 

"  Home — I  had  now  no  home — about  one  hundred  pounds 
was  all  that  remained  to  me  of  my  fine  property  when  my  debts, 
falsely  termed  debts  of  honor,  were  paid,  my  lodgings  settled 
for,  and  my  servant  discharged. 

"  My  disgrace  had  not  yet  reached  the  home  of  my  childhood. 
A  state  of  mental  suffering  brought  on  a  low  fever.    I  was 


.1 


4 


w 


THE     MONOTOVS. 


w 


seized  with  an  indescribable  longing,  an  aching  of  tho  heart  to 
end  my  days  in  my  na^'vo  village. 

"  Pride  in  vain  combated  with  this  feeling.  It  resisted  all 
tho  arguments  of  reason  and  common  sense.  Nature  triumphed 
— and  a  few  days  saw  me  once  more  under  the  shadow  of  the 
groat  oak  that  canopied  our  lowly  dwelling.  *^'     ^^ 


u 


♦4*  »1 


%.rt> 


V    , 


ts. 


CHAPTER   XX. 

ALI  OE. 


'  * .  ■,  ■ 


"As  I  approached  the  cottage  door,  my  attention  was 
arrested  by  a  low,  mournful  voice,  singing  in  sad  and  subdued 
tones,  a  ditty  which  seemed  the  spontaneous  outpouring  of  a 
wounded  spirit.  The  words  were  several  times  repeated,  and  I 
noted  them  down  as  I  leant  upon  the  trunk  of  the  old  tree. 
Out  of  sight,  but  within  a  few  feet  of  the  songstress,  whose  face 
was  hidden  from  me  by  the  thick  foliage  of  the  glorious  old 
tree,  in  whoso  broad-spreading  branches,  I  had  played  and 
frolicked  when  a  boy. 

THE  SONG. 

** '  I  once  was  happy,  blithe  and  gay, 
No  maiden's  heart  was  half  so  light ; 
I  cannot  sing,  for  well  a-fl.\y  ^ 
*'  *  My  morn  of  bliss  is  quenched  in  night.  '*    ' 

I  cannot  weep — my  brain  is  dry. 
Deep  woe  usurps  the  voice  of  mirth 

The  sunshine  of  youth's  cloudless  sky 
Has  faded  from  this  goodly  earth.  .  > 


My  soul  is  wrapped  in  midnight^gloom, 
And  all  that  charmed  my  heart  before, 

Droops  earthward  to  the  silent  tomb, 
Where  darkness  dwells  for  evermore.' 


*'■      "*f*.:'^ 


V 


•w;r^ '  "^  ^^  ""iwi  "  fm^^v*  ■ 


108 


THI    MONOTONd. 


•»    "  The  Yoice  ceased.  ' 

"  I  stepped  from  my  hiding-place.  Alice  rose  from  the  bench 
beside  the  door ;  the  woric  on  which  she  was  employed  fell  from 
her  hand,  and  she  stood  before  me  wild  and  wau — the  faded 
spectre  of  past  happiness  and  beauty.  <  i  Ht»i 

"  '  Good  Heavens,  Alice  I     Can  this  be  you  V  •   • 

♦  " '  I  may  return  the  compliment/  she  said,  with  a  ghastly 
smile.  '  Can  this  be  Thilip  ?  Misery  has  not  been  partial,  or 
your  brow  wears  its  mark  in  vain.' 

" '  Unhappy  sister  of  an  unhappy  brother,'  I  cried,  folding 
her  passive  form  to  my  heart,  *  I  need  not  ask  why  you  are 
altered  thus.' 

"  The  fire  that  had  been  burning  in  my  brain  for  some  weeks 
yielded  to  softer  emotions.  My  head  sunk  upon  her  shoulder, 
and  I  wept  long  and  bitterly. 

"  Alice  regarded  me  with  a  curious  and  mournful  glance,  but 
shed  no  tears. 

"  *  Alice  I    That  villain  has  deceived  you  ?' 

"  She  shook  her  head. 

"  '  It  is  useless  to  deny  facts  so  apparent.  Do  you  love  him 
still  ?' 

"  She  sighed  deeply.  '  Yes,  Philip.  But  he  has  ceased  to 
love  me.' 

"  '  Deserted  you  ?' 

"  Her  lip  quivered.     She  was  silent. 

"'The  villain!  his  life  shall  answer  for  the  wrong  he  has 
done  you  I' 

"  The  blood  rushed  to  her  pale,  wasted  cheeks,  her  eyes  flashed 
upon  me  with  unnatural  brilliancy,  and  grasping  my  arm,  she 
fiercely  and  vehemently  replied. 

"  '  Utter  that  threat  but  once  again,  and  we  become  enemies 
for  life.  If  he  has  injured  me  and  made  me  the  wreck  you  see 
— it  is  not  in  the  way  you  think.  To  destroy  him  would  drive 
me  to  despair.  It  would  force  me  to  commit  an  act  of  desper- 
ation— I  will  suffer  no  one  to  interfere  between  me  and  the  man 


./ 


:%' 


■til;". 


4 


T  U  K     M.U  N  U  r  U  N  d  . 


199 


to 


_ 


I  lovo.  I  am  strong  enough  to  tako  my  own  pare — to  aycnge 
myself,  if  need  be.  I  can  bear  iny  own  grief  in  silence,  and 
therefore  beg  that  you  will  spare  your  sympathy  for  those  who 
weep  and  pule  over  misfortune.  I  would  rather  be  reproached 
than  pitied  for  sorrows  that  I  draw  upon  myself.'  ii-i^ti 

"She  sat  down  trembling  with  excitement,  and  tried  to 
resume  her  former  occupation.  Presently  the  needle  dropped 
from  her  hand,  and  she  looked  wistfully  up  into  my  face. 

*'  *  Philip,  what  brought  you  here  ?'  > 

"  *  An  unwelcome  visitor,  I  fear.' 

"  '  Perhaps  so.  People  always  come  at  the  worst  times,  and 
when  they  are  least  wanted.' 

" '  Do  you  include  your  brother  in  that  sweeping  common- 
place term — has  he  become  to  you  as  one  of  the  people  ?  Ah, 
Alice.'  *  : 

"  '  We  have  been  no  more  to  each  other  for  the  last  three 
years,  Philip.  Your  absence  and  long  silence  made  me  forget 
that  I  had  a  brother.  Few  could  suppose  it,  from  the  little 
interest  you  ever  expressed  for  me.'  j 

" '  I  did  not  think  of  you,  or  love  you  the  less.*  ,>, 

"  '  Mere  words.  Love  cannot  brook  long  separation  from  the 
object  beloved.  It  withers  beneath  neglect,  and  without  per- 
sonal intercourse  droops  and  dies.  While  you  were  happy  and 
prosperous  you  never  came  near  us  ;  and  I  repeat  again, — what 
brings  you  now  V 

**  *  I  have  been  unfortunate,  Alice  ;  the  dupe  of  villains  who 
have  robbed  me  of  my  property,  while  my  own  folly  has  deprived 
me  of  self-respect  and  peace  of  mind.  Ill  and  heart-sick,  I 
could  not  resist  the  strong  desire  to  return  to  my  native  place 
to  die.' 

"  *  There  is  no  peace  here,  Philip,'  she  said,  in  a  low  soft  voice. 
'  I  too,  would  fain  lie  down  on  the  lap  of  mother  earth  and  for- 
get my  misery.  But  we  are  too  young — too  wretched  to  die. 
Death  comes  to  the  good  and  happy,  and  cuts  down  the  strong 


jjgggg. 


200 


THE     MONCTONS 


I 


t  i 


man  like  the  flower  of  the  field — but  flies  the  wretch  who  courts 
it,  and  grins  in  ghastly  mockery  on  the  couch  of  woe.  Take  my 
advice,  Philip  Mornington,  lose  no  time  in  leaving  this  place. 
Here,  danger  besets  you  on  every  side.' 

" '  Why,  Alice,  do  you  think  I  fear  the  puny  arm  of  Theophi- 
lus  Moncton.     The  base  betrayer  of  innocence.' 

"  '  Why  Theophilus.  Spare  your  reproaches,  Philip  ;  we  shall 
quarrel  seriously  if  you  mention  that  name  with  disrespect  to 
mo — I  cannot,  and  will  not  bear  it.  It  was  not  him  I  meant. 
Yon  have  offended  our  grandmother  by  your  long  absence. 
Dinah  loves  you  not.  It  is  her  anger  I  would  warn  you  to 
shun.'  ^''  '' 

" '  And  do  you  think,  I  am  such  a  coward,  as  to  tremble  and 
fly  from  the  malice  of  a  peevish  old  granny  ?' 

"  '  You  laugh  at  my  warning,  Philip.  You  may  repent  your 
rashness  when  too  late.  The  fapg  of  the  serpent  is  not  deadened 
by  age,  and  the  rancor  in  the  human  heart  seldom  diminishes 
with  years.  Dinah  never  loved  you,  and  absence  has  not  increased 
the  strength  of  her  affection.'  ,    ,»v*v 

'  "'I  am  not  come  to  solicit  charity,  Alice.'  I  have  still 
enough  to  pay  the  old  woman  handsomely  for  board  and  lodging 
until  my  health  returns,  or  death  terminates  my  sufferings.  If 
Dinah  takes  me — a  fact  I  do  not  doubt-Hshe  loves  money. 
'  Where  is  she  now  ?'    .  .  .  ,       -  3#t^i>>-^^<^ 

"  *  In  the  village,  I  expect  her  in  every  minute.'       ..,u  - .  *is*.*f 

"  '  And  Miss  Moncton  V  I  said,  hesitating,  and  lowering  my 
voice.  '  How  is  she  ?'  ^,  _.  .,^  ,  „  ,.  c^^.t-^i^i  ^^<m 
.  "  *  I  don't  know,'  returned  Alice,  carelessly,  '  the  Hall  is  no 
longer  open  to  me.'  ^„^ , ,  ,  ^  ;,,,^  p^if^^m^ 

"■  'That  tells  its  own  tale,'  said  I  sorrowfully.  •  :/|>f»* 

"  '  The  tale  may  bq  false,  in  spite  of  probability,'  returned  slie, 
fiercely.  *  No  one  should  dare  openly  to  condemn  another  with- 
out sufficient  evidence.' 


"  '  They  need  not  go  far  for  that.' 


4*u  ^-^'^ 


■  i^l 


THE     MONCJCONS 


201 


<-f^ 


no 


f'.T-f'- 


\ 


■,«'■*'%- 


"*  That  is  your  opinion.'       r^*^'^  rr- 

"  *  On  most  conclusive  eYidence.    ^  =  >- 
..."'How  charitable.'  '^ 

"  '  How  true,  Alice.' 

"  'False  as  the  world.  As  you,  as  every  one  is  to  the  unfor- 
tunate,' she  cried,  with  indignation  in  her  eyes  and  scorn  upon 
her  lip.  '  But  here  is  Dinah — Dinah,  whom  you  consider  unfeel- 
ing and  cruel.  She  knows  me,  and  loves  me  better  than  you  do. 
She  does  not  join  with  a  parcel  of  conventional  sneaks  to  con- 
demn me.' 

"  As  she  ceased  speaking,  Dinah  entered  with  a  basket  on  her 
arm.  After  the  first  surprise  at  my  unexpected  and  unwelcome 
appearance  was  over,  she  accosted  me  with  more  amenity  of 
look  and  manner  than  I  ever  before  knew  her  to  assume. 

"'How  are  you,  Philip?  you  look  iL.  Suppose  you  have 
got  into  some  trouble,  or  we  should  not  be  honored  by  a  visit  ?' 

" '  You  are  right,  in  part,  grandmother.  I  have  been  sick 
for  some  days,  and  have  come  home  for  change  of  air  and  good 
nursing.' 

"  I  put  a  handful  of  gold  into  her  lap.  '  You  see  I  am  willing 
and  able  to  pay  for  the  trouble  I  give.  When  this  is  gone,  you 
can  have  more.'    *--»"'  ...  * 

" '  Money  is  always  welcome — more  welcome  often  than  those 
that  bring  it.  All  things  considered,  however,  I  am  glad  to  see 
you.  When  relatives  are  too  long  separated,  they  become 
strangers  to  each  other.  Alice  and  I  had  concluded  that  you 
only  regarded  us  as  such.  The  sight  of  you  will  renew  the  old 
tie  of  kindred,  and  make  you  one  of  us  again.  Quick,  Alice, 
get  your  brother  some  supper  ;  he  must  be  hungry  after  his 
long  journey.'       m  '^'*-    '    :^        '  '  -    ' 

f^"  *  I  am  in  no  need  ;  Alice,  do  not  trouble  yourself ;  I  feel 
too  ill  to  eat.     I  will  go  to  bed  if  you  please.     All  I  want  at 


present  is  rest.^ 


^^mfi''^ 


"Dinah,  who  was  passing  the  gold  from  one  hand  to  the 

9* 


,<fv^ 


202 


THE    MONCTONS 


other,  and  gazing  npon  it  with  infinite  satisfaction,  saddenly 
looked  up  and  repeated  the  last  word  after  me,  with  peculiar 
emphasis.  '  *'"" 

"  '  Rest !  Who  rests  in  this  world  ?  Even  sleep  is  not  rest ; 
the  body  sleeps,  but  the  soul  toils  on,  on,  on,  for  ever.  There  is 
no  such  thing  as  rest.  If  I  thought  so,  I  would  put  an  end  to 
my  e^cistence  to-morrow — I  would ;  and  meet  death  as  a 
liberator  from  the  vexatious  turmoils  of  life.'    ^  -   n  .    ur-. 

"There  was  something  in  these  words  that  filled  my  mind 
with  an  indescribable  horror — a  perfect  dread  of  endless  dura- 
tion. I  had  always  looked  upon  the  grave  as  a  place  of  rest — a 
haven  of  peace  from  the  cares  of  life  ;  that  old  raven,  with  her 
dismal  croaking,  had  banished  Mie  pleasing  illusion,  and  made 
me  nervously  sensitive  to  the  terrors  of  a  living,  conscious  eter- 
nity. Whilst  undressing  to  go  to  bed,  I  was  seized  with  violent 
shivering  fits,  and  before  morning  was  delirious,  and  in  a  high 
fever.  .     \    :■■  '.'^^.f:    ^riL 

"I  had  never  suflfered  from  severe  illness  before  ;  I  had  often 
been  afflicted  in  mind,  but  not  in  body.  I  now  had  to  endure 
the  horrors  of  both  combined.  For  the  first  fortnight  I  was  too 
ill  to  think.  I  was  in  the  condition  of  the  unfortunate  patri- 
arch, who  in  the  morning  exclaimed,  '  Would  God  it  were  night  I 
and  when  night  came,  reversed  the  feverish  hope. 

"There  were  moments,  however,  during  the  burning  hours  of 
these  sleepless  nights,  when  the  crimes  of  the  past,  and  the 
ifticertainty  of  the  future,  rushed  before  me  in  terrible  distinct- 
ness ;  when  I  tried  to  pray  and  could  not,  and  sought  comfort 
from  the  Word  of  God,  and  foun(^  every  line  a  condemnation. 
Oh,  these  dreadful  days  and  nights,  when  I  lay  a  hopeless,  self- 
condemned  expectant  of  misery,  shuddering  on  the  awful  brink 
of  eternity,  shrieking  to  the  Almighty  Father  for  peace,  and 
finding  none  ;  seeking  for  rest  with  strong  cries  and  tears,  and 
being  repaid  with  ten-fold  agony.  May  I  never  again  suffer  in 
flesh  and  spirit  what  I  theu  endured  !  . 


"•■•"^J»7^~"! 


4 


THE     UON0TON3. 


208 


-'^^'The  poor  lost  girl  who  r<i.tched  my  bed,  beheld  the  fierce 
tossings  of  pain,  the  agoaitc;  remorse,  with  icy  apathy.  She 
could  neither  direct  nor  assi^L  my  mind  in  its  struggles  to  obtain 
one  faint  glimmer  of  light  through  the  dense  gloom  caused  by 
infidelity  and  sin.  ^       >   •     '     '    '   ' 

"  Death — ^natural  death — the  mere  extinction  of  animal  life, 
I  did  not  dread.  Had  the  conflict  ended  with  annihilation,  I 
could  have  welcomed  it  with  joy.  But  death  unaccompanied  by 
total  extinction  was  horrible.  To  be  deprived  of  moral  life — to 
find  the  soul  for  ever  separated  from  God,  all  its  high  and  noble 
faculties  destroyed,  while  all  that  was  infamous  and  debasing 
remained  to  form  a  hell  of  memory,  an  eternity  of  despair,  was 
a  conviction  so  dreadful,  so  appalling  to  my  mind,  that  my  rea- 
son for  a  time  bowed  before  it,  and  for  some  days  I  was  con- 
scious of  nothing  else.  ,;    .  .  -  vi^ 

"  This  fiery  trial  yielded  at  last.  I  became  more  tractable, 
and  could  think  more  calmly  upon  the  awful  subject  ever  upper- 
most in  my  mind.  I  felt  a  strong  desire  to  pray,  to  acknow- 
ledge my  guilt  to  Almighty  God,  and  sue  for  pardon,  and 
restoration  to  peace  and  happiness.  I  could  not  express  my 
repentance  in  words,  I  could  only  sigh  and  weep,  but  He  who 
looks  upon  the  naked  human  heart,  knew  that  my  contrition 
was  sincere,  and  accepted  the  unformed  petition. 

"  As  the  hart  panteth  for  the  water  brooks,  so  did  my  tkirsty 
soul  pant  for  the  refreshing  waters  of  life.     In  feeble  tones  I* 
implored  Alice  to  read  to  me  from  the  New  Testament.    My , 
eyes  were  so  much  affected  by  the  fever,  that  I  could  scarcely 
distinguish  the  objects  round  me. 

"  The  request  was  distasteful,  and  she  evaded  it  for  mfthy 
days — at  last,  replied  testily, 

"  *  There  is  not  such  a  book  in  the  house — never  was — and 
you  know  that  quite  well.' 

"  '  You  can  borrow  ore  of  the  schoolmaster  in  the  village.' 

"  '  I  will  do  no  such  thing.     A  pretty  story  truly,  to  go  the 


mmmm 


^^^fp 


«Mjffi<>;i(W*»ffi*SL.i«i 


"■-fP", 


■r^' 


THS    MOMCTONS. 


rounds  of  Moncton.  That  the  Morniogtons  were  such  godless 
people  they  had  no  Bible  in  the  house,  and  had  to  borrow  one. 
Tliey  say  that  Dinah  is  a  witch,  and  this  would  confirm  it.*     f  '?- 

"  *  Send  the  boy  that  cuts  sticks  in  the  wood.  Let  him  ask 
it  as  if  for  his  mother.  I  know  Mr.  Ludd  will  lend  it  for  a 
good  purpose  ;  and  tell  the  boy  I  will  give  him  half  a  sovereign 
for  his  pains.'  ^  ^  ►   r      -      t 

"  '  Nonsense.     Why  that  would  buy  the  book.' 

"  '  Oh,  do  buy  it,  Alice,  my  good  angel ;  for  the  love  of  God, 
send  and  buy  it.  You  will  find  my  purse  in  my  coat-pocket. 
It  will  be  the  best  money  that  was  ever  laid  out  by  me.'       -    ■ 

"  '  You  had  better  be  still  and  go  to  sleep,  Philip  ;  you  are 
far  too  ill  to  bear  the  fatigue  of  reading  yet.' 

"  This  was  dreadfully  tantalizing,  but  I  was  forced  to  submit. 
The  next  morning  she  brought  me  a  cup  of  tea.  I  looked  wist- 
fully in  her  face.    , 

"  '  Dear  Alice,  you  could  give  me  something  that  would  do 
me  more  good  than  this.' 

"  *  Some  broth,  perhaps ;  sick  people  always  fancy  everything 
that  is  not  at  hand.'    , 

"'That  book.' 

" '  Are  you  thinking  about  that  still  V 

" '  I  long  for  the  bread  of  life." 

"  '  Do  you  want  to  turn  Methodist  ?' 

'• '  I  wish  to  become  a  Christian.'  f 

"  '  Are  you  not  one  already  V 

"  *  Oh,  no,  no,  Alice  1  All  my  life  long  I  have  denied  the 
word  of  God  and  the  power  of  salvation  ;  and  now,  I  would 
give  the  whole  world,  if  I  possessed  it,  to  obtain  the  true  riches. 
Do,  dear  sister,  grant  my  earnest  request,  and  may  the  God  of 
all  mercy  bring  you  to  a  knowledge  of  the  truth.' 

"  *  I  hate  cant,'  said  Alice,  discontentedly,  *  but  I  will  see 
what  I  can  do  for  you.' 

"  She  took  some  money  from  my  purse  and  left  the  room. 


!••  FV"'-' .ff ;  ,  IT"*  '*■■', 7 


THE     MONOTONS. 


205 


1 


lee 


"  Hours  passed  away.  I  listened  for  her  returning  footsteps 
until  I  fell  asleep.  It  was  night  when  I  again  unclosed  my  eyes. 
Alice  was  sitting  by  the  little  table  reading.  Oh,  blessed  sight. 
The  Bible  lay  open  before  her.  ^.-.v  t-  c^  ,. 

"  *  I  dreampt  it/  I  cried  joyfully.  *  I  dreampt  that  you  got  it, 
and  God  has  brought  it  to  pass.  Oh,  dear  Alice  you  have  made 
me  so  happy.'  ,  "  -     ,  -^^" 

'"  What  shall  I  read  ?'  .-     ,      ^       -■-. 

"  I  was  puzzled ;  so  much  a  stranger  was  I  to  the  sacred 
volume,  that  though  it  had  formed  a  portion  of  my  school  and 
college  studies,  the  little  interest  then  felt  in  iX8  con*ynts,  had 
made  me  almost  a  stranger  to  them.  " 

"' Read  the  Gospel  of  St.  John.'  •      *r 

"' A  chapter  you  mean.' 
" '  As  much  as  you  can.  Until  you  are  tired.' 
"  She  began  at  the  opening  chapter  of  that  sublime  gospel,  in 
which  we  have  so  much  of  the  mind  of  Jesus,  though  lef«  of  his 
wondrous  parables  and  miracles  ;  but  matter  that  is  higher, 
more  mysterious,  spiritual  and  satisfying  to  the  soul.  Nor  pould 
T  suffer  her  to  lay  aside  the  book  until  it  was  concluded. 

"  How  eagerly  I  drank  in  every  word,  and  long  after  every 
eye  was  closed  in  sleep  I  continued  in  meditation  and  prayer. 
A  thousand  times  I  repeated  to  myself,  *  And  ye  shall  know  the 
truth,  and  the  truth  shall  set  you  free.'  What  a  glorious  eman- 
cipation from  the  chains  of  sin  and  death.  Oh,  how  I  longed 
for  a  knowledge  of  that  truth,  and  the  answer  came.  '  0  Lord 
thy  word  is  truth;'  and  the  problem  in  my  soul  was  satisfied,  and 
with  a  solemn  thanksgiving  T  devoted  myself  to  the  service  of 
God.  A  calm  and  holy  peace  came  down  upon  my  soul,  and 
that  night  I  enjoyed  the  first  refreshing  sleep  I  had  known  for 
many  weeks. 

"  In  the  morning  I  was  much  better,  but  still  too  weak  to 
leave  my  bed. 


A 


-,  -r"i^  ■.^^' 


206 


THB    MONOTONS. 


"  I  spent  most  of  the  day  in  reading  the  Bible.  Alice  had 
relaxed  much  of  her  attention,  and  I  only  saw  her  daring  the 
brief  periods  when  she  administered  medicine,  or  brought  me 
broth  or  gruel.  ^        -«».,;  f -* 

"  I  felt  hurt  at  her  coldness  ;  but  it  was  something  more  than 
mere  coldness.  Her  manner  had  become  sullen  and  disagree- 
able. She  answered  me  abruptly  and  in  monosyllables,  and 
appeared  rather  sorry  than  glad,  that  I  was  in  a  fair  way  of 
recovering.  '         /         * 

"  I  often  heard  her  and  Dinah  hold  confused  whispering  con- 
versations, in  the  outer  room  into  which  mine  opened,  the  cot- 
tage being  entirely  on  the  ground  floor,  and  one  evening  I 
thought  I  recognized  the  deep  tones  of  a  man's  voice.  I  tried 
to  catch  a  part  of  their  discourse,  but  the  sounds  were  too  low 
and  guarded  to  make  anything  out.  A  short  time  after  I  heard 
the  sound  of  horses'  hoofs  upon  the  gravel  walk  that  led  past 
the  cottage  into  the  park.  I  sat  up  in  the  bed  which  was  oppo- 
site the  window,  which  commanded  a  view  of  the  road,  and  per- 
ceived, to  my  dismay,  that  the  stranger  was  no  other  than 
Robert  Moncton,  who  was  riding  towards  the  village. 

"  A  dread  of  something — I  scarcely  knew  what — took  posses- 
sion of  my  mind,  and  remembering  my  weak,  helpless  state,  and 
how  completely  I  was  in  the  power  of  Dinah  North,  I  gave 
myself  up  to  vague  apprehensions  of  approaching  evil. 

"  Ashamed  of  my  weakness,  I  took  the  sacred  volume  from 
under  my  pillow,  and  soon  regained  my  self-possession.  I  felt 
that  I  was  in  the  hands  of  God,  and  that  all  things  regarding 
me  would  be  ordered  for  the  right.  Oh,  what  a  blessing  is  this 
trust  in  the  care  of  an  overruling  Providence  ;  how  it  relieves 
one  from  brooding  over  the  torturing  fears  of  what  may  accrue 
on  the  morrow,  verifying  the  divine  proverb  :  *  Sufficient  unto 
the  day  is  the  evil  thereof.* 

"  A  thick,  dark,  riiny  night  had  closed  in,  when  my  chamber 


t 


"'■W^ 


THE     MONOTONS. 


207 


1 


door  opened,  and  Alice  glided  in.  She  held  in  her  hand  a  small 
tray,  on  which  was  a  large  tumbler  of  mulled  wine  and  some  dry 
toast.  I  had  not  tasted  food  since  noon,  and  I  felt  both  faint 
and  hungry.  A  strange,  ghastly  expression  flitted  over  my  sis- 
ter's face,  which  was  unusually  pale,  as  she  sat  down  on  the  side 
of  the  bed.  •    ^  ^^  '•  '"  '''-'" 

*'  *  You  have  been  a  long  time  away,'  said  I,  with  the  pee- 
vish fretfulness  of  an  invalid.  '  If  you  were  ill  and  incapable  of 
helping  yourself,  Alice,  I  would  not  neglect  you,  and  leave  you 
for  hours  in  this  way.    I  might  have  died  during  your  absence.' 

"  •  No  fear  of  that,  Philip.  You  are  growing  cross,  which  is 
always  a  good  sign.  I  would  have  come  sooner,  but  had  so 
many  things  to  attend  to,  that  it  was  impossible.  Dinah  is  too 
old  to  work,  and  all  the  household  work  falls  on  me.  But,  how 
are  you  ?' 

"*  Better,  but  very  hungry.' 

"  *  I  don't  doubt  it.  It  is  time  you  took  something.  I  have 
got  a  little  treat  for  you — some  fine  mulled  sherry — it  will  do 
you  good  and  strengthen  you.' 

" '  I  don't  care  for  it,'  said  I,  with  an  air  of  disgust.  *  I  am 
very  thirsty.    Give  me  a  cup  of  tea.* 

"  '  We  got  tea  hours  ago,  when  you  were  asleep,  and  there  is 
not  a  drop  of  hot  water  in  the  kettle.  The  wine  is  more  nour- 
ishing. The  doctor  recommended  it.  Do  taste  it,  and  see  how 
good  it  is  I' 

"  I  tried  to  comply  with  her  request.  A  shudder 'came  over 
me  as  I  put  the  tumbler  to  my  lips.  '  It's  of  no  use,'  I  said, 
putting  it  back  on  to  the  tray.     '  I  cannot  drink  it.' 

"  '  If  you  love  me,  Philip,  try.  Drink  a  little,  if  you  can.  I 
made  it  on  purpose  to  please  you.' 

"She  bent  her  large  bright  eyes  on  me  with  an  anxious, 
dubious  expression — a  strange,  wild  look,  such  as  I  never  saw 
her  face  wear  before. 

*'  I  looked  at  her  in  return,  with  a  curious,  searching  gaze. 


,'    w 


208 


THE     M  O  N  C  T  0  N  a  . 


■»*t 


You  look 
Take  half 


1  did  not  exactly  suspect  her  of  any  evil  intention  towards  me, 

bat  her  manner  was  mysterious,  and  excited  surprise.      ««  *^w 

*  "  She  changed  color,  and  turned  away.    .>*  :','<,.  >    u;  ^  1      ^.*;ii^T 

"  A  sudden  thought  darted  through  my  brain.  Robert 
Moncton  had  been  there.  He  coveted  my  death,  for  what 
reason  I  could  not  fathom.  I  only  knew  the  fact.  What  if 
that  draught  were  poison  1 — and  suspicion,  once  aroused,  whis- 
pered it  is  poison. 

"I  rose  slowly  in  the  bed,  and  grasped  her  firmly  by  the 
wrist. -i:      *•  >     "  -  ^V' '     '  •    .-.   '      ^    -         •■  '••..•■'• 

"  '  Alice  I  we  will"  drink  of  that  glass  together, 
faint  and  pale.  The  contents  will  set  you  all  right. 
and  I  will  drink  the  rest.'     *  .  .  >  ,   . 

"*  I  never  drink  wine.*   •    '  "    '     - 

"  *  You  dare  not  drink  that  wine.' 

*"  If  I  liked  it,  what  should  hinder  me  ?' 
'  " '  You  could  not  like  it  Alice.     It  is  poison  P 
V  A  faint  cry  burst  from  her  lips. 

*' '  God  of  heaven,  who  told  you  that  V 

" '  Flesh  and  blood  did  not  reveal  it  to  me 
how  could  I  imagine  such  a  thing  of  you  V 

"  '  How,  indeed  !'  murmured  the  wretched  girl,  weeping  pas- 
sionately. '  She  persuaded  me  to  bring  it  to  you.  Be  mixed 
the  wine.    I — I  had  nothing  else  to  do  with  it.' 

" '  Yet  to  you,  as  a  willing  instrument  of  evil,  they  entrusted 
the  most  important  part  of  their  hellish  mission.' 

"  She  flung  herself  on  her  knees  beside  the  bed,  and  raising  her 
clasped  hands  and  streaming  eyes  to  Heaven  implored  God  to 
forgive  her  for  the  crime  slie  had  premeditated  against  my  life, 
binding  herself  in  an  awful  curse,  not  only  to  devise  means  to 
save  my  life,  but  to  remove  me  from  the  cottage. 

" '  As  to  you,  Philip,  I  dare  not  ask  you  to  forgive  me — I 
only  implore  you  not  to  curse  me.' 
.    " '  I  should  entertain  a  very  poor  opinion  of  myself,  if  I  should 


r.  .'a 


Alice,  Alice, 


-  I 


\ 


--"¥ 


THE    HONCTONS. 


200 


refuso  to  do  the  one,  ur  attempt  such  an  act  of  wickedneas  as  is 
involved  in  the  other.  But,  Alice,  do  not  think  that  I  can 
excuse  the  commission  of  such  a  dreadful  crime  as  murder — 
and  upon  whom?  A  brother  who  loved  you  tenderly — who, 
to  his  own  knowledge,  never  injured  you  in  word,  thought  or 
deed.' 

"  '  Philip,  you  are  not  my  brother,  or  the  deed  had  never  been 
attempted.' 

"  *  Not  your  brother  1     Who  am  I  then  ?'  *        ^  " 

"  *  I  cannot — dare  not  tell  you.  At  least  not  now.  Escape 
from  this  dreadful  place,  and  some  future  time  may  reveal  it.' 

"  '  You  talk  of  escape  as  a  thing  practicable  and  easy.  I  am 
so  weak  I  can  scarcely  stand,  much  less  walk  ten  paces  from  the 
house.     How  can  I  get  away  unknown  to  Dinah  V       ■      '  *  ' 

"  '  Listen  to  me — I  will  tell  you.'  She  rose  from  her  knees, 
and  gliding  to  the  door  that  led  into  the  outer  room,  she  gently 
unclosed  it,  and  leaning  forward  looked  cautiously  into  the  outer 
space.  Satisfied  that  it  was  vacant,  she  returned  stealthily  to 
my  bedside.  i  ,         %  <  v 

"'I  must  make  Dinah  believe  that  you  have  drank  this 
wine.  In  less  than  two  hours  you  will,  in  her  estimation,  be 
dead.  Not  a  creature  knows  of  your  return.  For  our  own 
sakes,  we  have  kept  your  being  here  a  profound  secret.  Robert 
Moncton,  however,  was  duly  informed  by  Dinah  of  your  visit. 
He  came  this  morning  to  the  house,  and  they  concocted  this 
scheme  between  them.  She  is  now  absent  looking  for  a  con- 
venient spot  for  a  grave  for  your  body  when  dead.  She  talked 
of  the  dark  shrubbery.  That  spot  is  seldom  visited  by  any  one, 
because  the  neighbors  fancy  that  it  is  haunted.  You  know  how 
afraid  we  were  of  going  near  those  dark,  shadowy  yews  when 
we  were  children.  Margaret  used  to  call  it  the  valley  of  the 
shadow  of  death.' 

" '  And  it  was  there,'  I  said,  with  a  shudder,  *  that  you  meant 
to  bury  me  ?' 


>[W 


210 


THE     UONGTONS 


'■i 


"  *  There — I  have  promised  to  drag  your  body  to  the  spot  in 
a  sack,  and  help  Dinah  make  the  grave.  But  hist — I  thought 
I  heard  a  step.    We  have  no  time  to  waste  in  idle  words.' 

" '  She  cannot  bury  me,  you  know,  without  my  consent,  before 
I  am  dead,'  I  said,  with  a  faint  smile.  '  Nor  dan  I  imagine 
how  you  will  be  able  to  deceive  her.  She  will  certainly  discover 
the  difference  between  an  empty  sack  and  a  full  one.' 

"  *  I  have  hit  on  a  plan,  which,  if  well  managed,  will  lull  her 
suspicions  to  sleep.  You  know  the  broken  statue  of  Apollo, 
that  lies  at  the  entrance  of  the  Lodge  ?  It  is  about  your  size. 
It  once  belonged  to  the  Hall  gardens,  and  Sir  Alexander  gave 
it  to  me  for  a  plaything  years  ago.  I  did  not  care  for  such  a 
huge  doll,  and  it  has  lain  there  ever  since.  I  will  convey  this  to 
your  chamber,  and  dress  it  in  your  night-clothes.  The  sack 
will  cover  the  mutilated  limbs,  and  by  the  dim,  uncertain  light 
of  the  dark  lantern,  she  will  never  discover  the  cheat.'      < ; 

"  *  But  if  she  should  insist  on  inspecting  the  body  V      <      - 

" '  I  will  prevent  it.  In  the  meanwhile  you  must  be  prepared 
to  leave  the  house  when  I  come  to  fetch  the  body.'  •    ;,.», 

"  I  felt  very  sick,  and  buried  my  face  in  the  pillows.  .' 
I  do  not  care  to  go  ;  let  me  stay  here  and  die.' 
You  must  live  for  my  sake,'  cried  the  unhappy  gh-l,  clasp- 
ing my  cold  hand  to  her  heart,  and  covering  it  with  kisses.  *  If 
you  fail  me  now,  we  are  both  lost.  Dinah  would  never  forgive 
me  for  betraying  her  and  Moncton.  Do  you  doubt  that  what  I 
have  told  you  is  true  ?'  .  ,        j  t  ,>,:•,: 

"  '  Not  in  the  least,  my  poor  Alice  ;  but  I  am  so  weak  and 
ill — so  forsaken  and  unhappy,  that  I  no  longer  care  for  the  life 
you  offer.'  .    ,  ,       ,,  ,,^ 

"  '  It  was  the  gift  of  God.  You  must  not  throw  it  away. 
He  may  have  work  on  the  earth  that  he  requires  you  to  do.'     ,, 

"  These  words  saved  me.  I  no  longer  hesitated  to  take  the 
chance  she  offered  me,  though  I  entertained  small  hopes  of  its 
success.    Yet  if  the  hand  of  Providence  was  stretched  out  to 


<(  < 


tt  t 


J*^k: 


;tf; 


^-^  T  -r^r 


^'.''J!5' 


THE     M0NCT0N8. 


Sll 


rescue  me  from  destraction,  it  was  only  right  for  me  to  yield  to 
its  guidance  with  obedient  gratitude  and  praise. 

"  Alice  was  about  to  leave  the  room — she  ouce  more  retarned 
to  my  side.  >  '•      .  -. 

"  *  Say  that  you  forgive  me,  Philip.'  ^  -  '  " 

^'  I  folded  her  in  my  thin,  wasted  arms,  aud  imprinted  a  kiss 
on  her  rigid  brow.  .  ;.'  *    .1 

"  *  From  my  very  heart !' 

"  '  God  bless  you,  Philip  1  I  will  love  and  cherish  your 
memory  to  my  dying  hour.'  ^' 

"  The  house  door  opened  suddenly  ;  she  tore  herself  from  my 
embrace.  '  Dinah  is  coming — lie  quite  still — moan  often,  as  if 
in  pain,  and  leave  me  to  manage  the  rest.'  '  k-  : 

"  She  left  the  chamber,  and  the  door  purposely  ajar,  that  I 
might  be  guided  in  my  conduct  by  what  passed  between  them.  ■- 

"  '  Did  he  drink  it  V  whispered  the  dreadful  woman. 

"  '  He  did.' 

*• '  And  how  does  it  agree  with  his  stomach  ?'  she  laughed — 
her  low,  horrid  laugh. 

"  '  As  might  be  expected — he  feels  rathtr  qualmish.' 

"  '  Ha,  ha  1'  cried  the  old  fiend,  rubbing  her  withered  long 
hands  together,  'you  came  Delilah  over  him.  Our  pretty  Sam- 
son is  caught  at  last.  Let  me  see — how  long  will  it  be  before 
the  poison  takes  effect — about  two  hours — when  did  he  take  it  V 

** '  About  an  hour  ago.  He  is  almost  insensible.  Don't  you 
hear  him  groan.    The  struggle  will  soon  be  over.' 

"  '  And  then  my  bonny  bird  will  have  no  rival  to  wealth  and 
power.  What  your  mother,  by  her  obstinate  folly,  lost,  your 
wit  and  prudence,  my  beauty,  will  regain.' 

"  This  speech  of  Dinah's  was  to  me  perfectly  inexplicable.  I 
heard  Alice  sigh  deeply,  but  she  did  not  reply. 

"  The  old  woman  left  the  cottage  but  quickly  retarned. 

"  *  I  want  the  spade.^  *>- 


212 


THE    MONCTO  N  S. 


"  *  You  will  find  it  in  tho  out-houso  ;  the  mattock  is  tliero, 
too  ;  you  will  need  it  to  break  the  hard  ground.' 

"  *  No,  no  ;  my  arm  is  strong  yet — stronger  than  you  think, 
for  a  woman  of  my  years.  The  heavy  rain  has  moistened  tho 
earth.  The  spade  will  do  the  job  ;  we  need  not  make  a  deep 
grave.    No  one  will  ever  look  for  him  there.' 

"  '  The  place  was  always  haunted,  it  will  be  doubly  so 
now.' 

"  '  Pshaw  I  who  believes  in  ghosts.  The  dead  are  dead — lost 
— gone  for  ever  ;  grass  springs  from  them,  and  their  juices  go 
to  fatten  worms  and  nourish  tho  weeds  of  the  earth.  Light  mo 
the  lantern  and  I  will  defy  all  the  ghosts  and  demons  in  the 
world ;  and  hark  you,  Alice,  the  moment  he  is  dead  put  the 
body  in  a  sack,  and  call  me  to  help  to  drag  it  to  tho  grave.  I 
shall  have  it  ready  in  no  time.?  '    ' 

"  'Monster !'  I  muttered  to  myself,  'the  pit  you  are  prepar- 
ing for  me,  ere  long,  may  open  beneath  your  own  feet.' 

"  I  heard  the  old  woman  close  the  front  door  after  her,  and 
presn.tly  Alice  reentered  my  chamber. 

"  '  Well,  thank  God  she  is  gone  on  her  unholy  task.  Now, 
Philip  i  now — lose  no  time — rise,  dress  yourself,  and  do  off  as 
fast  as  you  can  I' 

"  I  endeavored  to  obey,  but,  exhausted  by  long  sickness,  I  fell 
back  fainting  upon  the  bed. 

"  '  Stay,'  said  Alice,  *  you  are  weak  for  the  want  of  nourish- 
ment.    I  will  get  you  food  and  drink.' 

"  She  brought  me  a  glass  of  port  wine,  and  some  sandwiches. 
I  drank  the  wine  eagerly,  but  could  not  touch  the  food.  Tho 
wine  gave  me  a  fictitious  strength.  After  makin ';  several 
efforts  I  was  able  to  rise  and  dress  —  the  excitement  of  the 
moment  and  the  hope  of  escape  acting  as  powerful  stimulants.  I 
secured  all  that  remained  of  r  ly  small  fund  of  money,  tied  up  a 
change  of  linen  in  a  pocket-h  ndkerchief,  kissed  the  pale  girl 


'A 


^"'^r 


THE     MON0TON8. 


ai8 


3ral 
the 
I 
ip  a 
girl 


'1 


who  stood  cold  and  tearless  at  ray  side,  and  committing  myself 
to  the  care  of  God,  stole  out  into  the  dark  m  ;ht. 

"  1  breathed  aj^ain  the  fresh  air,  and  my  former  vl^ror  of  mind 
returned.  I  felt  like  one  just  freed  from  prison,  after  having 
had  sentence  of  death  pronounced  agaiu  *  him.  I  vaa  once 
liiore  free — miraculously  escaped  from  death  and  danger,  and 
eilcntly  and  fervently  I  oflfered  up  a  grateful  prayer  to  the  Hea- 
venly Father,  to  whom  I  was  indebted  for  such  a  signal  act  of 
mercy.  r 

"You  will  tbi'ik  It  itrange,  GeoCfrey — the  whim  of  a  mad- 
man— but  I  ''it  uu  u^u;!;,liable  curiosity  to  witness  the  interment 
of  my  8uppo?(,  I  ■  >  1y,  to  see  how  Alice  would  carry  out  the  last 
act  of  t/.  ^ '^ragic  drama. 

"  Tilt  vvish  was  no  sooner  formed,  than  I  prepared  to  carry  it 
iuco  execution.  .juk 

"  The  yew  shrubbery  lay  at  the  north  end  of  the  cottage,  and 
was  divided  from  the  road,  by  a  clipped  holly  hedge.  A  large 
yew  trpo  grew  out  of  the  centre  of  this  hedge,  which  had  been 
clipped  to  represent  a  watch  tower.  Open  spaces  having  been 
left  for  loop-holes.  Through  these  square  green  apertures,  I 
had  often,  when  a  boy,  made  war  upon  the  blackbirds  and  spar- 
rows, unseen  by  my  tiny  game. 

**  By  creeping  close  to  the  hedge,  and  looking  through  one  of 
these  loop-holes,  I  could  observe  all  that  was  passing  within  the 
shrubbery,  without  being  observed  by  Dinah  or  Alice.  Cau- 
tiously stealing  along,  for  the  night  was  intensely  dark,  and 
guiding  my  steps  by  the  thick  hedge,  which  resembled  a  massy 
green  wall,  I  reached  the  angle  where  it  turned  off  into  the 
park.  In  this  comer  stood  the  green  tower  I  was  seeking,  and 
■^limbin  ^  ooftly  the  gate  which  led  into  the  spacious  domain  of 
the  Monctons,  1  stepped  upon  a  stone  block  used  by  the  domes- 
tics for  mounting  horses,  and  thus  raised  several  feet  from  the 
ground,  1  could  distinctly  observe,  through  the  opening  in  the 
tree,  all  that  was  passing  below. 


214 


VHE     MOKCTONS 


» \ 


fi 


"  A  faint  light  directly  beneath  me,  gleamed  up  in  the  dense 
drizzly  darkness,  and  shone  on  the  hideous  features  of  that  ab- 
horred old  woman,  who  was  leaning  over  a  shallow  grave  she 
had  just  scoped  out  of  the  wet  dank  soil.  Her  arms  rested  on 
the  top  of  the  spade,  and  she  scowled  down  into  the  pit  that 
yawned  at  her  feet,  with  a  smile  of  derision  on  her  thin  sarcas- 
tic lips. 

"  '  It's  deep  enough  to  hide  him  from  the  light  of  day.  There's 
neither  a  shroud  nor  coffin  to  take  up  the  room,  and  he  is  worn 
to  a  skeleton  by  his  long  sickness.  Yes — there  let  him  rest  till 
the  judgment  day — the  worm  for  his  mate  and  the  cold  clay  for 
his  pillow  ;  I  wish  the  same  bed  held  all  his  accursed  race. 

"  '  And  his  pale-faced,  dainty  mother — where  is  she  ?  Does 
her  spirit  hover  near,  to  welcome  her  darlmg  to  the  land  of 
dreams  ?' 

"  A  light  step  sounded  on  the  narrow  path  that  led  from  the 
shrubbery  to  the  cottage,  accompanied  by  a  dull  lumbering 
sound. 

"Dinah,  raised  the  lantern  from  the  side  of  the  grave,  and 
held  it  up  into  the  dark  night. 

" '  Alice  V 

" '  Dinah  !' 

"  '  Is  he  dead  V 

"  '  Yes.  Here,  lend  a  hand.  The  body  is  dreadfully  heavy. 
I  am  almost  killed  with  dragging  it  hither.' 

"  *  You  K^iu  not  bring  it  alone  !' 

"  *  Who  could  I  ask  to  help  me  ?  and  I  was  so  afraid  of  dis- 
covery, I  dared  not  leave  it  to  come  for  you.' 

"The  old  woman  put  down  the  light,  and  went  to  help  her 
granddaugliter. 

**  *  Let  us  roll  the  body  into  the  grave,  mother.' 

*'  '  Not  yet — I  must  look  at  him.' 

"  He  makes  a  dreadful  corpse.' 

Death  is  no  flatterer,  child     Hold  up  the  light.' 


<(  ( 


THE     MONCTONS. 


215 


"  *  No,  no  I — You  must  not — you  shall  not  triumph  over  him 
now.     Let  the  dead  rest,  I  dare  not  look  upon  that  blue  cold 


and 


heavy. 


face,  those  staring  eyes  again.' 

"  *  Who  wants  you,  foolish  child  ?  I  wish  to  satisfy  myself 
that  my  enemy  is  dead.' 

"  A  scuffle  ensued,  in  which  the  light  was  extinguished,  and 
the  supposed  body  rolled  heavily  over  into  the  grave. 

" '  Oh,  mother,  mother  1  the  light  is  out,  and  we're  alone  with 
the  corpse  in  this  dreadful  darkness.' 

"  *  Nonsense — how  timid  you  are.  Go  back  to  the  house  and 
re-light  the  candle.' 

*• '  I  dare  not  go  alone.' 

'"Then  let  me  go?' 

*'  *  And  leave  me  with  him  ?  Oh,  not  for  worlds.  Mother 
mother  !  I  hear  him  moving  in  the  grave.  He  is  going  to  rise 
and  drag  me  down  into  it.  Look — look  !  I  see  his  eyes  glaring 
in  the  dark  hole.     There,  mother — there  1' 

" '  Curse  you  for  a  weak  fool  1  You  make  even  my  flesh 
creep.' 

"  '  Cover  it  up — cover  it  up  1'  cried  Alice,  pushing  with  her 
hands  and  feet  some  of  the  loose  earth  into  the  grave.  '  That 
ghastly  face  will  rise  and  condemn  us  at  the  Last  Day.  It  will 
haunt  me  as  long  as  I  live.  Oh,  'tis  terrible,  terrible,  to  feel 
the  stain  of  blood  on  your  soul,  and  to  know  that  all  the  waters 
of  the  great  ocean  could  never  wash  it  out.' 

"  *  I  will  go  home  with  you,  Alice,  and  return  and  close  the 
grave  myself,'  said  Dinah,  in  a  determined  tone.  *  If  you  stay 
here  much  longer,  you  will  make  me  as  great  a  coward  as 
yourself.' 

"  I  heard  the  sound  of  their  retreating  steps,  and  leaving  my 
place  of  concealment,  slowly  pursued  my  way  to  the  next  village. 
Entering  a  small  tavern,  I  asked  for  supper  and  a  bed.  The 
innkeeper  and  his  wife  were  both  known  lo  me,  but  I  was  so 


216 


THE     MONCTONS. 


1  :i. 


much  altered  by  sickness  that  they  did  not  recognize  me.  After 
taking  a  cup  of  tea,  I  retired  to  rest,  and  was  so  overcome  by 
mental  and  bodily  fatigue,  that  I  slept  soundly  until  noon  the 
next  day,  when  I  breakfasted,  and  took  a  seat  in  the  mail  coach 
for  London. 

"  During  my  journey  I  calmly  pondered  over  my  situation, 
and  formed  a  plan  for  the  future,  which  I  lost  no  time  in  putting 
into  practice. 

"  From  what  had  fallen  from  the  lips  of  Alice,  I  was  con- 
vinced that  some  mystery  was  connected  with  my  birth,  and 
the  only  means  which  I  could  devise  to  fathom  it,  was  to  gain 
more  insight  into  the  character  and  private  history  of  Robert 
Moncton. 

"  At  times  the  thought  would  present  itself  to  my  mind  that 
this  man  might  be  my  father.  My  mother  was  a  strange  crea- 
ture— a  woman  whose  moral  principles  could  not  have  ranked, 
very  high.  I  scarcely  knew,  from  my  own  experience,  if  she 
possessed  any — at  all  events  I  determined  to  get  a  place 
in  his  office,  if  possible,  and  wait  patiently  until  something 
should  turn  up  which  might  satisfy  my  doubts,  and  expose  the 
tissue  of  villainy  that  an  untoward  destiny  had  woven  around 
me.  While  at  college,  I  had  studied  for  the  bar,  and  had 
gained  an  extensive  knowledge  in  the  jurisprudence  of  my 
country — in  which  I  took  great  delight,  and  which  I  had 
intended  to  follow  as  a  profession  ;  when,  unfortunately,  the 
death  of  Mr.  Mornington  rendered  me  an  independent  man. 
At  school  I  had  learned  to  write  all  sorts  of  hands,  and  could 
engross  with  great  beauty  and  accuracy. 

"  As  a  man,  I  was  personally  unknown  to  Robert  Moncton,' 
whom  I  never  beheld  but  once,  and  for  a  few  minutes  only, 
when  a  boy,  and  time  and  sickness  had  so  altered  me,  that  it 
was  not  very  likely  that  he  would  recognize  me  again. 

"  Two  years  previous  to  the  time  of  which  I  am  now  speak- 


I 
* 


THE    HONCTONS, 


an 


)nly, 
lat  it 

)eak- 


ing,  I  had  saved  the  eldest  son  of  Mr.  Moncton's  head  clerk  from 
drowning,  at  the  risk  of  my  own  life.  Mr.  Bassett  was  over- 
whelming in  his  expressions  of  gratitude,  and  as  to  his  poor 
little  wife,  she  never  mentioned  the  circumstance  with  dry  eyes. 

"  The  boy,  who  was  about  ten  years  of  age,  was  a  very  noble, 
handsome  little  fellow,  and  I  often  walked  to  their  humble 
lodgings  to  see  him  and  his  good  parents,  who  always  received 
me  with  the  most  lively  demonstrations  of  joy. 

"  To  these  good  people  I  determined  to  apply  for  advice  and 
assistance.  Fortunately  my  application  was  made  in  a  lucky 
moment.  Mr.  Bassett  was  about  to  leave  your  uncle's  office, 
and  he  strongly  recommended  me  to  his  old  master,  as  a  person 
well  known  to  him ;  of  excellent  character,  and  who  was  every 
way  competent  to  fill  his  place. 

"  I  was  accepted.    You  know  the  rest. 

"  Our  friendship,  dear  Geoffrey,  rendered  my  situation  far 
from  irksome,  while  it  enable  me  to  earn  a  respectable  living. 
At  present,  I  have  learned  little,  that  can  throw  any  addi- 
tional light  upon  my  sad  history.  Alice  Mornington  still  lives, 
and  is  about  to  become  a  mother.  Theophilus,  the  dastardly 
author  of  her  wrongs,  is  playing  the  lover  to  the  beautiful 
Catherine  Lee,  who  is  a  ward  of  his  father's. 

"  From  the  conversation  that  passed  between  Dinah  North 
and  Mr.  Moncton  in  your  chamber,  I  suspect  that  my  poor  Alice 
is  less  guilty  than  she  appears.  Dinah  has  some  deeper  motive 
than  merely  obliging  Robert  Moncton,  in  wishing  to  make  you 
a  bastard.  I  feel  confident  that  this  story  has  been  recently  got 
up,  and  is  an  infamous  falsehood.  If  true,  you  would  have 
heard  of  it  before,  and  I  advise  you  to  leave  no  stone  unturned 
to  frustrate  their  wicked  conspiracy." 

"But  what  can  I  do  ?  I  have  neither  money  nor  friends  ;  and 
my  uncle  will  _take  precious  good  care  that  no  one  in  this  city 
shall  give  me  employment." 

10 


/■ .; 


218 


THE     MONCTONS 


;•.%. 


"Go  to  Sir  Alexander.  He  expressed  an  interest  in  your 
situation.  Tell  him  the  story  of  your  wrongs,  and,  depend  upon 
it,  he  will  not  turn  a  deaf  ear  to  your  complaint.  I  know  that 
he  hates  both  father  and  son,  and  will  befriend  you  to  oppose 
and  thwart  them." 

My  heart  instantly  caught  at  this  proposal. 

"  I  will  go  !"  I  cried.     "  But  I  want  the  means." 

"  I  can  supply  you  with  the  necessary  funds,"  said  George  Har- 
rison, for  I  must  still  call  him  by  his  old  name.  "  And  my  offer 
is  not  wholly  disinterested.  Perhaps,  Geoff,  you  may  be  the 
means  of  reconciling  your  friend  to  his  old  benefactor.  But  this 
must  be  done  cautiously.  Dinah  North  must  not  know  that  I 
am  alive.  Her  ignorance  of  this  fact,  places  this  wicked  woman 
in  our  power,  and  may  hereafter  force  her  to  reveal  what  we 
want  to  know." 

I  promised  implicit  obedience  to  these  injunctions,  and 
thanked  him  warmly  for  his  confidence  and  advice.  His  story 
had  made  a  deep  impression  on  my  mind.  I  longed  to  serve 
him.  Indeed,  I  loved  him  with  the  most  sincere  affection ; 
regarding  him  in  the  light  of  a  beloved  brother. 

In  a  fortnight,  I  was  able  to  walk  abroad,  and  was  quite 
impatient  to  undertake  my  Yorkshire  journey. 

Harrison  was  engaged  as  a  writer  in  the  office  of  a  respect- 
able solicitor  in  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields,  and  we  promised  to 
correspond  regularly  with  each  other  during  my  absence. 

He  generously  divided  with  me  the  little  money  he  possessed, 
and  bidding  God  bless  and  prosper  my  journey,  he  pressed  me 
to  his  warm,  noble  heart  and  bade  me  farewell. 

I  mounted  the  York  stage,  and  for  the  first  time  in  my  life, 
bade  adieu  to  London  and  its  environs. 


I 


THE     UONCTOKS 


219 


«^    ' 


1" 


>;  -vvi*  • 


CHAPTER    XXI. 


MY   VISIT  TO  MONCTON   PARK. 


It  was  a  fine,  warm,  balmy  evening  in  May — green  delicious 
May.  With  what  delight  I  gazed  abroad  upon  the  face  of 
Nature.  Every  scene  was  new  to  me,  and  awakened  feelings 
of  curiosity  and  pleasure. 

Just  out  of  a  sick-bed,  and  after  having  been  confined  for 
weeks  in  a  dusky,  badly  ventilated  and  meanly  furnished  garret, 
my  heart  actually  bounded  with  rapture,  and,  I  drank  in  health 
and  hope  from  the  fresh  breeze  that  swept  the  hair  from  my 
pale  brow  and  hollow  cheeks. 

Ah,  glorious  Nature  1  beautiful,  purest  of  all  that  is  pure  and 
holy.  Thou  visible  perfection  of  the  invisible  God.  I  was 
young  then,  and  am  now  old,  but  never  did  I  find  a  genuine  love 
of  thee,  dwelling  in  the  heart  of  a  deceitful,  wicked  man.  To 
love  thee,  we  must  adore  the  God  who  made  thee  ;  and  how- 
ever sin  may  defile  what  originally  He  pronounced  good,  when 
we  return  with  child-like  simplicity  to  thy  breast,  we  find  the 
happiness  and  peace  which  a  loving  parent  can  alone  bestow. 

Nothing  remarkable  occurred  during  ray  journey.  The 
coach,  in  due  time,  deposited  me  at  the  gates  of  the  Lodge,  in 
which  my  poor  friend  Harrison  had  first  seen  the  light. 

An  involuntary  shudder  ran  through  me,  when  I  recognized 
old  Dinah  North,  standing  within  the  porch  of  the  cottage. 

She  instantly  knew  me,  and  drew  back  with  a  malignant 
scowl. 


220 


THJJ     MONCTONS. 


^|- 


Directing  the  coachman  to  leave  my  portmanteau  at  the 
village  inn,  until  dlled  for,  I  turned  up  the  broad  avenue  of 
oaks  that  led  to  the  Hall. 

The  evening  was  calm  and  lovely.  Ther*  nightingale  was 
pouring  his  first  love-song  to  the  silent  dewy  groves.  The  per- 
fume of  the  primrose  and  violet  made  every  swelling  knoll  redo- 
lent of  sweets.  I  paused  often,  during  my  walk,  to  admire  the 
beauty  of  a  scene  so  new  to  me.     . 

Those  noble  hills  and  vales  ;  that  bright-sweeping  river  ; 
tlwse  bowering  woods,  just  bursting  into  verdure,  and  that 
princely  mansion,  rising  proudly  into  the  clear  blue  air — all 
would  be  mine,  could  I  but  vindicate  my  mother's  honor,  and 
prove  to  the  world  that  I  was  the  oflfspring  of  lawful  wedlock. 

I  felt  no  doubt  myself  upon  the  subject.  Truth  may  be 
obscured  for  a  while,  but  cannot  long  remain  hid.  The  innate 
consciousness  of  my  mother's  moral  rectitude,  never  for  a 
moment  left  my  mind.  A  proud  conviction  of  her  innocence^ 
which,  I  was  certain,  time  would  make  clear. 

Full  of  these  reflections,  I  approached  the  Hall.  It  was  an 
old-fashioned  building,  which  had  been  created  during  the  wars 
of  York  and  Lancaster,  now  venerable  with  the  elemental  war 
of  ages,  and  might,  in  its  day,  have  stood  the  shock  of  battle 
and  siege.  It  was  a  fine  old  place,  and  associated  as  it  was 
with  the  history  of  the  past,  sent  a  thrill  of  superstitious  awe 
through  my  heart. 

For  upwards  of  three  hundred  years  it  had  been  the  birth- 
place of  my  family.  Here  they  had  lived  and  flourished  as 
lords  of  the  soil.  Here,  too,  most  of  them  had  died,  and  been 
gathered  into  one  common  burial-place,  in  the  vault  of  the  pic- 
turesque gothic  church,  which  stood  embosomed  in  -trees  not  far 
from  the  old  feudal  mansion. 

While  I,  the  rightful  heir  of  the  demesne,  with  a  soul  as 
large, — with  heart  and  hand  equal  to  do  and  dare,  all  that  they 


THE     M0N0T0N3. 


221 


h- 
as 
en 
)ic- 
'ar 


— 


in  their  da/  and  generation  had  accomplished — approached  the 
old  home,  poor  and  friendless,  with  a  stigma  upon  the  good 
name  which  legally  I  might  never  be  able  to  efface. 

But,  courage,  Geoffrey  Moncton  I  He  who  first  added  the 
appendage  of  Sir  to  that  name,  rode  among  the  victors  at  the 
battle  of  Cressy,  and  the  war-shout  of  one  of  his  descendants 
rang  out  defiantly  on  the  bloody  field  of  Agincourt.  "Wliy  need 
you  despair  I  England  wants  soldiers  yet,  and  if  you  fail  in 
establishing  your  claims  to  that  name  and  its  proud  memories, 
win  one,  as  others  have  done  before  you,  at  the  cannon's 
mouth. 

I  sent  up  my  card,  which  gained  me  instant  admittance.  I 
was  shown  into  the  library,  which  Harrison  had  so  often  des- 
cribed. A  noble  old  room  pannelled  to  the  ceiling,  with  carved 
oak  now  almost  black  with  age. 

Here  I  found  the  Baronet  engaged  with  his  daughter  in  a 
game  at  chess. 

He  rose  t(^  meet  me  with  evident  marks  of  pleasure,  and 
introduced  me  to  Miss  Moncton,  as  a  young  cousin,  in  whom  he 
felt  much  interested,  and  one  with  whom  he  hoped  to  see  her 
better  acquainted. 

With  a  soft  blush,  and  a  smile  of  inexpressible  sweetness, 
the  little  fairy,  for  she  was  almost  as  diminutive  in  stature, 
bade  me  welcome. 

Her  face,  though  very  pleasing,  was  neither  striking  nor 
beautiful.  It  was,  how  ever,  exquisitely  feminine,  and  beaming 
with  intelligence,  dignity  and  truth.  Her  large,  dark,  soul- 
lighted  eyes  were  singularly  beautiful.  Her  complexion,  too 
fair  and  pale  for  health  ;  the  rich  ruby-colored  full  lips  and 
dazzling  teeth,  forming  a  painful  contrast  with  the  pure  white 
cheeks,  shaded  by  a  dark  cloud  of  raven  tresses,  that,  parting  on 
either  side  of  her  lofty  brow,  flowed  in  rich  curls  down  her  snowy 
neck,  and  over  her  marble  shoulders  to  her  waist. 


i 


^..-laisSfi^iXi^':, 


222 


TMB    MONOTONS. 


,J 


■  \ 


Her  figure  in  miniature,  comprised  all  that  was  graceful  and 
lovely  in  woman  ;  and  her  frank,  unsophisticated  manners  ren- 
dered her,  in  spite  of  a  faulty  nose  and  mouth,  very  attractive. 

After  exchanging  a  few  sentences.  Miss  Moncton  withdrew, 
and  I  lost  no  time  in  explaining  to  her  father  the  cause  of  my 
visit — the  manner  in  which  I  had  been  treated  by  my  uncle,  my 
recent  illness,  and  the  utter  friendlessness  of  my  present 
position. 

"  You  told  me,  sir,  to  come  to  you  at  any  crisis  of  difficulty, 
for  advice  and  assistance.  I  have  done  so,  and  shall  feel  most 
grateful  for  your  counsels  in  the  present  emergency.  I  am  will- 
ing and  able  to  work  for  my  bread ;  I  only  want  on  opening  to 
be  made  in  order  to  get  my  own  living." 

"  Your  profession,  Geoffrey  ;  why  not  stick  to  that  ?" 

"  Most  gladly  would  I  do  so,  had  not  Robert  Moncton  put 
the  finishing  stroke  to  his  dastardly  tyranny,  by  tearing  my 
indentures,  and  by  this  malicious  act  destroyed  the  labor  of 
seven  years." 

"  Curse  him  1  the  scoundrel  1  the  mean,  cowardly  scoundrel  I" 
cried  Sir  Alexander,  striking  the  table  with  srch  violence  with 
his  clenched  hand,  that  kings,  queens,  knights,  bishops  and  com- 
moners made  a  general  movement  to  the  other  side  of  the  chess- 
board. "  Never  mind,  Geoffrey,  my  boy,  give  me  your  hand — 
I  will  be  your  friend — will  restore  you  to  your  rights,  if  it  costs 
me  the  last  shilling  in  my  purse — ay,  or  the  last  drop  in  my 
veins.  Let  the  future,  for  a  short  time,  take  care  of  itself. 
Make  this  your  home  ;  look  upon  me  as  your  father,  and  we 
shall  yet  live  to  see  this  villain  reap  the  reward  of  his  evil  deeds." 

"  Generous,  noble  man  1"  I  cried,  while  tears  of  joy  and  gra- 
titude rolled  down  my  cheeks,  "how  can  I  ever  hope  to 
repay  you  for  such  disinterested  goodness  ?" 

"  By  never  alluding  to  the  subject,  Geoffrey.  Give  me  back 
the  love  your  father  once  felt  for  me,  and  I  shall  be  more  than 


m^ 


t  - 
It 


% 


TU£     MONOTUNS. 


223 


i 


repaid.  Besides,  my  lad,  I  am  neither  bo  good  nor  so  disinter- 
ested as  you  give  me  credit  for.  I  hate,  detest,  despise  that 
uncle  of  yours,  and  I  kuow  the  best  way  to  annoy  him  is  to 
befriend  you,  and  get  you  safe  out  of  his  villaiuous  clutches. 
This  is  hardly  doing  as  I  would  be  done  by,  but  I  can't  help  it. 
No  one  blames  another  for  taking  a  fly  out  of  a  spider's  web, 
when  the  poor  devil  is  shrieking  for  help,  although  he  be  the 
spider's  lawful  prey.  But  who  does  not  applaud  a  man  for 
rescuing  his  fellow  man  from  the  grasp  of  a  cannibal — and  that 
Robert  Moncton  is  a  regular  man-eater — a  wretch  who  grows 
fat  upon  the  substance  of  his  neighbors." 

I  could  hardly  help  laughing  at  this  outbreak  of  temper  on 
the  part  of  my  worthy  kinsman.  ' 

"  By  the  by,  GeoflFrey,"  said  he,  "  have  you  dined  V* 

"  At  the  last  inn  we  stopped  at  on  the  road." 

"  The  Hart ;  a  place  not  very  famous  for  good  cheer.  Their 
beef  is  generally  as  hard  as  their  deer's  horns.  Let  me  order  up 
refreshments." 

"  By  no  means.  You  forget.  Sir  Alexander,  that  of  late  I 
have  not  been  much  used  to  good  living.  The  friend  on  whose 
charity  I  have  been  boarding  is  a  poor  fellow  like  myself." 

"  Well,  we  must  have  our  chat  over  a  glass  of  old  wine." 

He  rang  the  bell.  The  wine  was  soon  placed  upon  the  table, 
and  most  excellent  it  proved.  I  was  weak  from  my  long  con- 
finement to  a  sick  chamber,  and  tired  with  my  journey  ;  I  never 
enjoyed  a  glass  of  wine  so  much  in  my  life. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  Moncton,  Geoffrey  ?" 

"  It  is  a  glorious  old  place." 

"  Wish  it  were  yours — don't  you  ?    Confess  the  truth,  now." 

"  Some  fifty  years  hence,"  I  said,  laughing. 

"  You  would  be  too  old  to  enjoy  it,  Geoff  ;  but  wait  patiently 
God's  good  time,  and  it  may  be  yours  yet.  There  was  a  period 
in  my  life  ;"  and  he  sighed  a  long,  deep,  regretful  sigh,"  when  I 


324 


TUB     MONO TONS 


hoped  that  a  son  of  mine  would  be  master  here,  but  as  that  can- 
not be,  and  I  am  doomed  to  leave  no  male  heir  to  ray  name  and 
title,  I  know  no  one  whom  I  would  rather  see  in  the  old  place 
than  my  cousin  Edward's  son." 

"  Your  attachment  to  my  father  must  have  been  great,  when, 
after  so  many  years,  you  extend  it  to  his  son." 
•  "  Yes,  Geoifrey,  I  loved  that  wild,  mad-cap  father  of  yours 
better  than  I  ever  loved  one  of  my  own  sex  ;  but  I  suffered  one 
rash  action  to  separate  hearts  which  were  formed  by  nature  to 
understand  and  appeciate  each  other.  You  are  not  acquainted 
with  this  portion  of  the  family  history.  Pass  the  bottle  this 
way,  and  I  will  enlighten  your  ignorance." 

"When  your  grandfather,  in  the  plenitude  of  his  worldly 
wisdom,  for  he  had  a  deal  of  the  fox  in  his  character,  left  the 
guardianship  of  his  sons  to  his  aged  father,  it  was  out  of  no 
respect  for  the  old  gentleman,  who  had  cast  him  off  rather  un- 
ceremoniously, when  his  plebeian  tastes  led  him  to  prefer  being 
a  rich  citizen,  rather  than  a  poor  gentleman  ;  but  he  found,  that 
though  he  had  amassed  riches,  he  had  lost  caste,  and  he  hoped 
by  this  act  to  restore  his  sons,  for  whom  he  had  acquired  wealth, 
to  their  proper  position  in  society. 

"  My  grandfather.  Sir  Robert,  grumbled  a  good  deal  at 
being  troubled  with  the  guardianship  of  the  lads  in  his  old  age. 
But  when  he  saw  those  youthful  scions  of  his  old  house,  he  was 
so  struck  with  their  beauty  and  talents,  that  from  that  hour 
they  held  an  equal  place  in  his  affections  with  myself,  the  only 
cluld  of  his  eldest  son,  and  heir  to  his  estates. 

"  I  was  an  extravagant,  reckless  young  fellow  of  eighteen, 
when  my  cousins  first  came  to  live  at  Moncton  ;  and  I  hailed 
their  advent  with  delight.  Edward,  I  told  you  before,  had  been 
an  old  chum  of  mine  at  school ;  and  when  Robert  was  placed 
in  a  lawyer's  office,  he  accompanied  me  to  college  to  finish  my 
education.     He  was  intended  to  fill  his  father's  place  in  the  mer 


;     *«■■ 


THK     MONCTONS. 


22{ 


cantilo  world,  but  ho  had  little  talent  or  inclination  for  snch  a 
life.  AH  his  tastes  were  decidedly  aristocratic,  and  I  fear  that 
my  expensive  and  dissipated  habits  operated  unfavorably  on  his 
open,  generous,  social  disposition. 

"  With  a  thousand  good  qualities,  and  possessing  excellent 
talents,  Edward  Moncton  was  easily  led  astray  by  the  bad 
example  of  others.  He  was  a  fine  musician,  had  an  admirable 
voice,  a  brilliant  wit,  and  great  fluency  of  speech,  which  can 
scarcely  be  called  advantageous  gifts,  to  those  who  don't  know 
how  to  make  a  proper  use  of  them. 

"  He  was  the  life  of  the  society  in  which  we  moved,  courted 
and  admired  wherever  he  went,  and  a  jolly  time  we  had  of  it,  I 
can  tell  you,  in  those  classical  abodes  of  learning  and  sin. 

"  Edward  gave  me  his  whole  heart,  and  I  loved  him  with  the 
most  entire  affection.  But,  though  I  saw  that  my  example 
acted  most  perniciously  on  his  easy  disposition,  I  wanted  the 
moral  courage  to  give  up  a  course  of  gaiety  and  vice,  in  order 
to  save  him  from  ruin. 

"  Poor  Edward  ! — I  would  give  worlds  to  recall  the  past. 
But  the  bad  seed  was  sown,  and  in  time  we  reaped  the  bitter, 
fruits. 

"  With  all  my  faults — I  was  never  a  gambler  ;  women,  wine, 
and  extravagant  living,  were  my  chief  derelictions  from  the  paths 
of  rectitude. 

"  But  even  while  yielding  to  these  temptations,  I  was  neither 
an  habitual  drunkard  nor  a  heartless  seducer  of  innocence, 
though  I  frequented  haunts,  where  both  characters  were  con- 
stantly found,  and  ranked  many  such  men  among  my  chosen 
friends  and  associates.  My  moral  guilt,  was  perhaps  as  great 
as  theirs  ;  for  it  is  vain  for  a  man  to  boast  of  his  not  being  intem- 
perate, because  nature  has  furnished  him  with  nerves,  which 
enable  him  to  drink,  in  defiance  to  reason,  quanti'^ies  which  would 
deprive  the  larger  portion  of  men  of  their  senses. 

10* 


SS6 


THl     MONGTONS 


"  Yoar  father  thought,  boylike,  for  ho  was  full  three  years 
my  junior,  to  prove  his  title  to  manhood  by  following  closely  in 
my  stops,  and  too  soon  felt  the  evil  effects  of  such  a  leader. 
He  wasted  his  health  in  debauchery,  and  wine  maddened  him. 
The  gaming-table  held  out  its  allurements,  he  wanted  fortitude 
to  resist  its  temptation,  and  was  the  loser  to  a  considerable 
amount. 

*'  He  kept  this  a  secret  from  me.  He  was  a  minor,  and  he 
feared  that  it  might  reach  my  grandfather's  ears,  and  that  Sir 
Robert  would  stop  the  supplies,  until  his  debts  were  paid. 

"  I  heard  of  it  through  a  mutual  friend,  and  very  consistently 
imagined  the  crime  far  greater  than  any  that  I  had  committed. 

"  The  night  before  we  left  college,  I  followed  hira  to  his  favo- 
rite rendezvous,  which  was  held  in  the  rooms  of  a  certain  young 
nobleman,  unknown  to  the  authorities,  where  students  who  were 
known  to  belong  to  wealthy  parents,  met  to  play  hazard  and 
^cart6,  and  lose  more  money  at  a  sitting,  than  could  be  replaced 
by  the  economy  of  years. 

"  I   was  not  one  of   Lord 's  clique,   and  I  sent  my 

card  to  Edward  by  a  friend,  requesting  to  speak  to  him  on  a 
matter  of  importance.  After  some  delay,  he  came  out  to  me. 
He  was  not  pleased  at  being  disturbed,  and  was  much  flushed 
with  wine. 

" '  What  do  you  want,  Alick  ?'  he  said,  in  no  very  gentle  tones. 

"  *  I  want  you,  to  come  and  help  me  prepare  for  our  journey 
to-morrow.' 

" '  There  will  be  plenty  of  time  for  that,  by-and-by.  I  am 
engaged,  and  don't  choose  to  be  dictated  to  like  a  school-boy.' 

"  *  You  are  mad,'  said  I,  taking  hold  of  his  arm,  *  to  go 
there  at  all.  Those  fellows  will  cheat  you  out  of  every  penny 
you  have.' 

"  '  That's  my  own  look-out.  I  tell  you  once  for  all,  Alick,  I 
don't  choose  you  to  ride  rough-shod  over  me,  because  you  fancy 


TUK     UONCTONI, 


281 


I 

r 


'^ 


yourself  superior.  I  will  do  as  I  please.  I  hare  lost  a  deal  of 
money  to-uight,  and  I  mean  to  play  on  until  I  win  it  back.' 

" '  You  will  only  lose  more.  You  are  not  in  a  fit  state  to 
deal  with  sharpers.  You  uro  so  tipsy  now,  you  can  hardly 
stand.' 

"  As  I  said  this,  I  put  luy  arm  around  him  to  lead  him  away, 
when  he,  nmddcned  I  suppose  by  drink  ana  his  recent  losses, 
burst  from  mc,  and  turning  sharp  round,  struck  me  a  violent 
blow  on  the  face.  '  Let  that  satisfy  you,  whether  I  am  drunk 
or  sober,'  and  with  a  bitter  laugh,  he  returned  to  the  party  he 
had  quitted. 

"  Geoflfrey,  I  felt  that  blow  in  my  heart.  The  disgrace  was 
little  in  comparison  to  the  consciousness  that  it  came  from 
his  hand — the  hand  of  the  friend  I  loved.  I  could  havo 
returned  the  injury  with  tenfold  interest.  But  I  did  nothing  of 
the  sort.  I  stood  looking  after  him  with  dim  eyes  and  a  swel- 
ling heart,  repeating  to  myself —  ,,,       -,,.. 

"  *  Is  it  possible  that  Edward  struck  me  ?'  • 

"That  blow,  however,  achieved  a  great  moral  reformation. 
It  led  me  to  think — to  examine  my  past  life,  and  to  renounce 
for  ever  those  follies,  which  I  now  felt  were  debasing  to  both 
soul  and  body,  and  unworthy  the  pursuit  of  any  rational 
creature. 

"  The  world  expected  me,  as  a  gentleman,  to  ask  satisfaction 
of  Edward  for  the  insult  I  had  received. 

"  I  set  the  world  and  its  false  laws  at  defiance. 

"  I  returned  to  my  lodgings  and  wrote  him  a  brief  note, 
telling  him  that  I  forgave  him,  and  gently  remonstrating  with 
him  on  the  violence  of  his  conduct. 

"  Instead  of  answering,  or  apologizing  for  what  he  had  done, 
he  listened  to  the  advice  of  a  pack  of  senseless  idiots,  who 
denounced  me  as  a  coward,  and  lauded  his  rash  act  to  the 
skies. 


228 


THE     MONCTONS. 


"  To  seek  a  reconciliation,  wonld  be  to  lose  his  independence, 
they  said,  and  prove  to  the  world  that  he  had  been  in  the 
wrong. 

"  I,  on  my  part,  was  too  proud  to  solicit  his  friendship,  and 
left  London  before  the  effort  of  mutual  friends  had  effected  a 
change  in  his  feelings. 

"  Perhaps,  as  the  injurer,  he  never  forgave  me  for  being  the 
originator  of  ihe  quarrel — be  that  as  it  may,  we  never  met 
again.  My  grandfather  died  shortly  after.  I  formed  an  unfor- 
tunate attachment  to  a  person  far  beneath  me  in  rank,  and  but 
for  the  horror  of  entailing  upon  myself  her  worthless  mother, 
would  certainly  have  made  her  my  wife. 

"  To  avoid  falling  into  this  snare,  I  went  abroad  for  several 
years,  and  ultimately  married  a  virtuous  and  lovely  woman,  and 
became  a  happy  husband  and  father,  and  I  hope  a  better 
man." 

The  Baronet  ceased  speaking  for  a  few  minutes,  then  said 
with  a  half  smile  : 

"  Geoff,  men  are  sad  foc>ls.     After  losing  that  angel,  I  came 

very  near  marrying  my  old  flame,  who  was  a  widow  at  the  time, 

and  as  handsome  as  ever.     She  died  most  opportunely,  I  am 

now  convinced,  for  my  comfort  and  respectability,  and  I  gave 

.  up  all  idea  of  taking  a  second  wife." 

This  account  tallied  exactly  with  Harrison's  story,  which  had 
given  me  a  key  to  the  Baronet's  history.  I  inquired,  rather 
anxiously,  if  he  and  my  father  remained  unreconciled  up  to  the 
period  of  his  death. 

"  I  wrote  to  him  frequently,  Geoffrey,  when  time  had  healed 
the  wound  he  inflicted  on  my  heart,  but  he  never  condescended 
to  reply  to  any  of  my  communications,  I  have  since  thought 
that  he  did  write,  and  that  his  brother  Robert,  who  was  always 
jealous  of  our  friendship,  destroyed  the  letters.  I  assure  you, 
that  this  unnatural  estrangement  formed  one  of  the  saddest 


T 


..j{?i*'X*«iiB»' 


THE     MONCTONS. 


229 


events  in  my  life ;  and  for  the  love  I  still  bear  his  memory,  I 
will  never  desert  his  orphan  son." 

I  thanked  the  worthy  Baronet  again  and  again,  for  the  gene- 
rous treatment  I  had  received  from  him,  and  we  parted  at  a  late 
hour,  mutually  pleased  with  each  other. 


230 


THE     MONCTONS 


% 


CHAPTER    XXII 


A   SAD   EVENT. 


A  FEW  weeks'  residence  found  me  quite  at  home  at  the  Hall. 
My  new-found  relatives  treated  me  with  the  affectionate  famili- 
arity that  exists  between  old  and  long-tried  friends.  I  ceased 
to  feel  myself  the  despised  'poor  relation — a  creature  rarely  loved 
and  always  in  the  way,  expected  to  be  the  recipient  of  all  the 
kicks  and  cuffs  of  the  family  to  whom  his  ill-fortune  has  made 
him  an  attach^,  and  to  return  the  base  coin  with  smiles  and 
flattering  speeches. 

Of  all  lots  in  this  hard  world,  the  hardest  to  bear  must  be 
that  of  a  domestic  sneak  ;  war,  war  to  the  knife  is  better  than 
such  humiliating  servitude.  I  could  neither  fawn  nor  cringe, 
and  the  Baronet,  who  was  a  high-spirited  man  himself,  loved  me 
for  my  independence. 

The  summer  had  just  commenced.  No  hunting,  no  shooting 
to  wile  away  an  idle  hour.  But  Sir  Alexander  was  as  fond  of 
old  Izaak  Walton's  gentle  craft,  as  that  accomplished  piscator, 
and  we  often  rose  at  early  dawn  to  stroll  through  the  dewy  pas- 
tures to  the  stream  that  crossed  the  park,  which  abounded  with 
trout,  and  I  soon  became  an  excellent  angler,  and  could  hook 
my  fish  in  the  most  scientific  manner. 

When  the  days  were  not  propitious  for  our  sport,  I  accompa- 
nied Sir  Alexander  in  his  rides,  in  visiting  his  model  farms, 
examining  the  progress  of  his  crops,  the  making  of  hay,  the 
improved  breeds  of  sheep  and  cattle,  and  all  such  healthy  and 
rural  employments,  in  which  he  took  a  patriarchal  delight. 


THE     MONCTONS 


231 


tor. 


Margaretta  generally  accompanied  us  on  these  expeditions. 
She  was  an  excellent  equestrian,  and  managed  her  high-bred 
roan  with  much  skill  and  ease,  never  disturbing  the  pleasure  of 
the  ride  by  nervous  or  childish  fears. 

"  Madge  is  a  capital  rider  I"  would  the  old  Baronet  exclaim. 
*'  I  taught  her  myself.  There  is  no  affectation — no  show-off 
airs  in  her  riding.  She  does  that  as  she  does  everything  else,  in 
a  quiet,  natural  way." 

The  enjoyment  of  our  country  life  was  seldom  disturbed  by 
visitors.  All  the  great  folks  were  in  London  ;  the  beauties  of 
nature  possessing  far  less  attractions  for  them  than  the  sophisti- 
cated gaieties  of  the  season  in  town. 

If  his  youth  had  been  dissipated,  Sir  Alexander  courted 
retirement  in  age,  and  was  perfectly  devoted  to  the  quiet  happi- 
ness of  a  domestic  life. 

Margaretta,  who  shared  all  his  tastes,  and  whose  presence 
appeared  necessary  to  his  existence,  had  spent  one  season  in 
London,  but  cared  so  little  for  the  pleasures  of  the  metropolis, 
that  she  resisted  the  urgent  entreaties  of  her  female  friends  to 
accompany  them  to  town  a  second  time. 

"I  hate  London,  Cousin  Geoffrey.  There  is  no  room  in  its 
crowded  scenes  for  nature  and  truth.  Every  one  seems  intent 
upon  acting  a  lie,  and  living  in  defiance  of  their  reason  and  bet- 
ter feelings.  I  never  could  feel  at  home  there.  I  mistrusted 
myself  and  every  one  else,  and  never  itnew  what  true  happiness 
was,  until  I  returned  to  the  unaffected  simplicity  of  a  country 
life." 

These  sentiments  were  fully  reciprocated  by  me,  who  had 
passed,  within  the  smoky  walls  of  the  huge  metropolis,  the  most 
unhappy  period  of  my  life. 

Some  hburs,  every  day,  were  devoted  by  Sir  Alexander  to 
business,  during  which  he  was  closely  closeted  with  Mr.  Hilton, 
his  steward,  and  to  disturb  him  at  such  times  was  regarded  by 
him  as  an  act  of  high  treason. 


232 


THE     MONCTONS 


During  these  hours,  Margaretta  and  I  were  left  to  amuse 
ourselves  in  the  best  manner  we  could.  She  was  a  fine  pianist. 
I  had  inherited  my  father's  passion  for  music,  and  was  never 
tired  of  listening  to  her  while  she  played.  If  the  weather  was 
unfavorable  for  a  ride  or  stroll  in  the  park,  I  read  aloud  to  her, 
while  she  painted  groups  of  flowers  from  nature,  for  which  sHe 
had  an  exquisite  taste. 

The  time  fled  away  only  too  fast,  and  this  mingling  of 
amusement  and  mental  occupation  was  very  delightful  to  me, 
whose  chief  employment  for  years  had  been  confined  to  musty 
parchments  in  a  dull,  dark  office. 

Our  twilight  rambles  through  the  glades  of  the  beautiful 
park,  at  that  witching  hour  when  both  eye  and  heart  are  keenly 
alive  to  sights  and  sounds  of  beauty,  possessed  for  me  the  great- 
est charm. 

I  loved — ^but  only  as  a  brother  loves — the  dear,  enthusias- 
tic girl,  who  leaned  so  confidingly  on  my  arm,  whose  glorious 
eyes,  lighted  up  from  the  very  fountain  of  passion  and  feeling, 
were  raised  to  mine  as  if  to  kindle  in  my  breast  the  fire  of 
genius  that  emanated  from  her  own. 

Her  vivid  imagination,  fostered  in  solitude,  seized  upon 
everything  bright  and  beautiful  in  nature,  and  made  it  her 
own. 

"  The  lips  of  song  burst  open 
And  tbe  words  of  fire  rushed  out." 


At  such  moments  it  was  impossible  to  regard  Mt:rgaretta  with 
indifference.  I  could  have  loved — nay,  adored — had  not  my 
mind  been  preoccupied  with  a  fairer  image. 

Margaretta  was  too  great  a  novice  in  affairs  of  the  heart,  to 
notice  the  guarded  coolness  of  my  homage.  My  society  afforded 
her  great  pleasure,  and  she  wanted  the  common-place  tact  of  her 
sex  to  disguise  it  from  me. 


THE     MONCTONS 


233 


Pear,  lovely,  confiding  Margaretta,  how  beautiful  does  your 
simple  truth  and  disinterested  aflfection  appear,  as  I  look  back 
through  the  long  vista  of  years,  and  find  in  the  world  so  few  who 
resemble  thee  1 

Towards  the  close  of  a  hot  day  in  June  we  visited  the  fra- 
grant fields  of  new-mown  hay,  and  Margaretta  tired  herself  by 
chasing  a  pair  of  small,  coquettish  blue  butterflies,  who  hovered 
along  the  hedge,  that  bounded  the  dusty  highway,  like  lining 
gems,  and  not  succeeding  in  capturing  the  shy  things,  she  pro- 
posed leaving  the  road,  and  returning  home  through  the  Park. 

"  With  all  my  heart,"  said  I.  "  We  will  rest  under  your 
favorite  beech,  while  you,  dear  Madge,  sing  with  your  sweet 
voice,  the 

"  Drowsy  world  to  rest." 


We  crossed  a  stile  and  entered  one  of  the  broad,  green  arcades 
of  the  glorious  old  park. 

For  some  time  we  reposed  upon  the  velvet  sward,  beneath 
Margaretta's  favorite  tree.  The  slanting  red  beams  of  the  set- 
ting sun  scarcely  forced  their  way  through  the  thickly  interlaced 
boughs  of  the  forest.  The  sparkling  wavelets  of  the  river  ran 
brawling  at  our  feet,  fighting  their  way  among  the  sharp  rocks 
that  opposed  a  barrier  to  their  downward  course.  We  ba  Hed 
our  temples  in  the  cool,  clear  waters.  Margaretta  forgot  he 
dusty  road,  the  independent  blue  butterflies,  and  her  recent 
fatigue. 

"  There  is  no  music  after  all  like  the  music  of  nature,  Geof- 
frey," she  said,  untying  her  straw  bonnet,  and  throwing  it  on  the 
grass  beside  her,  while  she  shook  a  shower  of  glossy  black  ring- 
lets back  from  her  small  oval  face. 

"  Not  that  it  is  the  instrument,  but  the  soul  that  breathes 
through  it,  that  makes  the  music.  And  Nature,  pouring  her 
soul  into  these  waves,  and  stirring  with  her  plaintive  sighs  these 


234 


THE     MONO  TONS 


branches  above  us,  awakens  sounds  which  find  an  echo  in  the 
heart  of  all  her  children,  who  remain  true  to  the  teachings  of 
the  divine  mother."  Then  turning  suddenly  to  me,  she  said, 
"  Geoffrey,  do  you  sing  ?" 

"  To  please  myself.  I  play  upon  the  flute  much  better  than 
I  sing.  During  the  last  half  year  I  remained  with  my  uncle  I 
took  lessons  of  an  excellent  master,  and  having  a  good  ear,  and 
being  passionately  fond  of  music,  I  gained  considerable  profi- 
ciency.   I  had  been  an  amateur  performer  for  years." 

"  And  you  never  told  me  one  word  of  this  before." 

"  I  did  not  wish  to  display  all  my  trifling  stock  of  accomplish- 
ments at  once,"  said  I,  with  a  smile.  "  Those  who  possess  but 
little  are  wise  to  reserve  a  small  portion  of  what  they  have. 
You  shall  test  its  value  the  next  rainy  day." 

"In  the  absence  of  the  flute,  Geoffrey,  you  must  give  me  a 
song.  A  song  that  harmonizes  with  this  witching  hour  and 
holiday  time  o'  the  year." 

"  Then  it  must  necessarily  be  a  love  song,"  said  I ;  "  youth 
and  spring  being  the  best  adapted  to  inspire  the  joyousness  of 
love." 

"  Call  not  love  joyous,  Geoffrey;  it  is  a  sad  and  fearful  thing 
to  love.  Love  that  is  sincere  is  a  hidden  emotion  of  the  heart  ; 
it  shrinks  from  vain  laughter,  and  is  most  eloquent  when  silent, 
or  only  revealed  by  tears." 

I  started,  and  turned  an  anxious  gaze  upon  her  pale,  spiritual 
face. 

What  right  had  I  to  be  jealous  of  her  ?  1  who  was  devoted 
to  another.     Yet  jealous  I  was,  and  answered  rather  pettishly  : 

"  You  talk  feelingly,  fair  cousin,  as  if  you  had  experienced 
the  passion  you  describe.  Have  you  tasted  the  bitter  sadness 
of  disappointed  love  ?" 

"  I  did  not  say  that."  And  she  blushed  deepl3\  "  You 
chose  to  infer  it." 


THE     MONCTONS 


236 


I  did  not  reply.  The  image  of  Harrison  rose  in  my  mind. 
For  the  first  time  I  saw  a  strong  likeness  between  them.  Such 
a  likeness  as  is  often  found  between  persons  who  strongly 
assimilate — whose  feelings,  tastes,  and  pursuits  are  the  same. 

Was  it  possible  that  she  had  loved  him  ?  I  was  anxious  to 
find  out  if  my  suspicions  were  true  ;  and  without  any  prelude 
or  apology  commenced  singing  a  little  air  that  George  had 
taught  me,  both  music  and  words  being  his  own. 

SONG. 


"  I  loved  you  long  and  tenderly, 

I  urged  my  suit  with  tears ; 
But  coldly  and  disdainfully 

You  crushed  the  hope  of  years. 
I  gazed  upon  your  glowing  cheek, 

I  met  your  flashing  eye  ; 
The  words  I  strove  ia  vain  to  speak 

Were  smothered  in  a  sigh. 


I 

a 


I  swore  to  love  you  faithfully, 

Till  death  should  bid  us  part ; 
But  proudly  and  reproachfully, 

You  spurned  a  loyal  heart. 
Despair  is  bold — you  turned  away, 

And  wished  we  ne'er  had  met, 
Through  many  a  long  and  weary  day 

That  parting  haunts  me  yet. 


m 


d 

ss 

)U 


Nor  think  that  chilling'  apathy, 

Can  passion's  tide  repress — 
Ah,  no,  with  fond  idolatry, 

I  would  not  love  thee  less. 
Your  image  meets  me  in  the  crowd, 

Like  some  fair  beam  of  light, 
That  bursting  through  its  sombre  cloud 

AJakes  glad  the  brow  of  night. 


236 


THE    MONOTONS. 


Thpn  turn  my  hard  captivity, 

Nor  let  me  sue  in  vain, 
'Whilst  with  unshaken  constancy, 

I  seek  your  feet  again. 
One  smile  of  thine  can  cheer  the  heart, 

That  only  beats  to  bo 
United,  ne'er  again  to  part — 

My  life  I  my  soul  I — from  thee. 


I  sang  ray  best,  aud  was  accounted  by  all  the  young  men 
of  my  acquaintance,  to  have  a  fine  manly  voice.  But  I  was  not 
rewarded  by  a  single  word  or  encouraging  smile. 

Margaretta's  head  was  bowed  upon  her  hands,  and  tears  were 
streaming  fast  through  her  slender  fingers. 

"  Margaret,  dearest  Margaret  1"  for  in  speaking  to  her,  I 
always  dropped  the  Italianized  termination  of  her  name.  "  Are 
you  ill.    Do  speak  to  me." 

She  still  continued  to  weep. 

"  I  wish  I  had  not  sung  that  foolish  song." 

"It  was  only  sung  too  well,  Geoffrey."  And  she  slowly 
raised  her  head  and  put  back  the  hair  from  her  brow.  "Ah, 
what  sad — what  painful  recollectioricj  does  that  song  call  up. 
But  with  these,  you  have  nothing  to  do.  I  will  not  ask  you 
how  you  became  acquainted  with  that  air.  But  I  request  as  a 
great  favor,  that  you  never  sing  or  play  it  to  me  again." 

She  relapsed  into  silence,  which  I  longed  but  did  not  know 
how  to  break.  At  length  she  rose  from  the  bank  on  which  we 
had  been  seated,  resumed  her  bonnet,  and  expressed  a  wish  to 
return  to  the  Hall. 

"  The  night  has  closed  in  very  fast,"  she  said,  "  or  is  the 
gloom  occasioned  by  the  shadow  of  the  trees  ?" 

"  It  is  only  a  few  minutes  past  seven,  I  replied,  looking  at 
my  watch.  "The  hay-makers  have  not  yet  left  their  work." 
We  had  followed  the  course  of  the  stream,  on  our  homeward 


THE     MONCTONS 


28t 


path,  and  now  emerged  into  an  open  space  iu  the  Park.  The 
sudden  twilight  which  had  descended  upon  us  was  caused  by  a 
heavy  pile  of  tliunder  clouds  that  hunp*  frowning  over  the 
woods,  and  threatened  to  overtake  us  before  we  could  reach  the 
Hall. 

"  How  still  and  deep  the  waters  lie,"  said  Margaretta. 
"  There  is  not  a  breath  of  wind  to  ruffle  them  or  stir  the  trees. 
The  awful  stillness  which  precedes  a  storm  inspires  me  with 
more  dread,  than  p/hen  it  launches  forth  with  all  its  terrific 
powers." 

"  Hark  I  There's  the  first  low  peal  of  thunder,  and  the  trees 
are  all  trembling  and  shivering  in  the  electric  blast  that  follows 
it.  How  sublimely  beautiful,  is  this  magnificent  war  of  ele- 
ments." 

"  It  is  very  true,  dear  cousin,  but  if  you  stand  gaziiig  at  the 
clouds,  we  shall  both  get  wet." 

"Geoffrey,"  said  Margaretta,  laughing,  "there  is  nothing 
poetical  about  you." 

"  I.  have  been  used  to  the  commonest  prose  all  my  life, 
Madge.  But  here  we  are  at  the  fishing-house,  we  had  better 
stow  ourselves  away  with  your  father's  nets  and  tackles  until 
this  heavy  shower  is  over  " 

No  sooner  said  than  done.  We  crossed  a  rustic  bridge  which 
spanned  the  stream,  and  ascending  a  flight  of  stone  steps, 
reached  a  small  rough-cast  building,  open  in  front,  with  a  bench 
running  round  three  sides  of  it,  ana  a  rude  oak  table  in  the 
middle,  which  was  covered  with  fishing-rods,  nets,  and  other 
tackle  belonging  to  the  gentle  craft. 

From  this  picturesque  shed  Sir  Alexander,  in  wet  weather, 
could  follow  his  favorite  sport,  as  the  river  ran  directly  below, 
and  it  was  considered  the  best  spot  for  angling,  the  water 
expanding  here  into  a  deep  still  pool,  which  was  much  fre- 
quented by  the  finny  tribes. 


288 


THR     MON0TON8. 


We  were  both  soon  seated  ia  the  ivy-covered  porch,  the 
honey-suckle  hanging  its  perfumed  tassels,  dripping  with  the  rain, 
above  our  heads,  while  the  clematis  and  briar-rose  gave  out  to 
•  the  shower  a  double  portion  of  delicate  incense. 

The  scene  was  in  unison  with  Margaretta's  poetical  tempera- 
ment. She  enjoyed  it  with  her  whole  heart ;  her  beautiful  eyes 
brimful  of  love  and  adoration. 

The  landscape  varied  every  moment.  Now  all  was  black  and 
lowering ;  lightnings  pierced  with  their  irrowy  tongues  the 
heavy  foliage  of  the  frowning  woods,  and  loud  peals  of  thunder 
reverberated  among  the  distant  hills  ;  and  now  a  solitary  sun- 
beam struggled  through  a  rift  in  the  heavy  cloud,  and  lighted 
up  the  gloomy  scene  with  a  smile  of  celestial  beauty. 

Margaretta  suddenly  grasped  my  arm  ;  I  followed  the  direc- 
tion of  her  eye,  and  beheld  a  tall  female  figure,  dressed  in  deep 
mourning,  pacing  to  and  fro  on  the  bridge  we  had  just  crossed. 

Her  long  hair,  unconfined  by  cap  or  bandage,  streamed  in  wild 
confusion  round  her  wan  and  wasted  features,  and  regardless  of 
the  pelting  of  the  pitiless  storm,  she  continued  to  hurry  back- 
wards and  forwards,  throwing  her  hands  into  the  air,  and 
striking  her  breast  like  one  possessed. 

"  Who  is  she  ?"  I  whispered. 

"  The  wreck  of  all  that  once  was  beautiful,"  sighed  Margar- 
etta. "It  is  Alice  Mornington,  the  daughter  of  one  of  my 
father's  tenants." 

"  Alice  Mornington !  Good  Heavens  1  is  that  poor  mad- 
woman Alice  Mornington  ?" 

Margaretta  looked  surprised. 

"  Do  you  know  this  poor  girl  V 

I  felt  that  I  had  nearly  betrayed  myself,  and  stammered  oat 
*'  Not  personally  ;  I  know  something  of  her  private  history, 
which  I  heard  accidentally  before  I  came  here." 

"  Geoffrey,  no  sister  ever  loved  another  more  devotedly  than 


THR     M0NCT0N8. 


239 


I  loved  that  poor  girl — than  I  love  her  still.  After  she  forsook 
the  path  of  virtue,  my  father  forbade  me  having  the  least  inter- 
course with  her.  My  heart  bleeds  to  see  her  thus.  I  cannot 
stand  calmly  by  and  witness  her  misery.  Stay  here,  while  I  go 
and  speak  to  her." 

With  noiseless  tread  she  glided  down  the  stone  steps,  and 
gained  the  bridge.  The  quick  eye  of  the  maniac  (for  such  she 
appeared  to  be)  however,  had  detected  the  movement,  and  with 
a  loud  shriek  she  flung  herself  into  the  water. 

To  spring  to  the  bank,  to  plunge  into  the  stream,  and  as  she 
rose  to  the  surface,  to  bear  the  wretched  girl  to  the  shore,  was 
but  the  work  of  a  moment.  Brief  as  the  time  was  that  had 
elapsed  between  the  rash  act  and  her  rescue,  she  was  already 
insensible,  and  with  some  difficulty  I  succeeded  in  carrying  her 
up  the  steep  stairs  to  the  fishing  house. 

It  was  some  seconds  before  suspended  animation  returned, 
and  when  at  length  the  large  blue  eyes  unclosed,  Alice  awoke  to 
consciousness  on  the  bosom  of  the  fond  and  weeping  Mar- 
garetta. 

"  Oh,  Miss  Moncton  1"  sobbed  the  poor  girl,  "  why  did  you 
save  me — why  did  you  recall  me  to  a  life  of  misery — why  did 
you  not  let  me  die  when  the  agony  of  death  was  already  over  ?" 

"  Dear  Alice  !"  said  Margaret,  soothingly,  "  what  tempted 
you  to  drown  yourself  ?  You  know  it  is  wrong  to  commit  a  deed 
like  this." 

"  I  was  driven  to  desperation  by  the  neglect  and  cruelty  of 
those  whom  I  love  best  on  earth." 

"Do  not  reproach  me,  dear  Alice,"  said  Margaret,  almost 
choking  with  emotion.  "  It  is  not  in  my  nature  to  desert  those 
I  love.  My  heart  has  been  with  you  in  all  your  sorrows,  but  1 
dared  not  disobey  my  father." 

"  Oh,  Miss  Moncton,  it  was  not  of  you  I  spoke.  I  could 
not  expect  you  to  countenance  one  whom  the  whole  neighbor- 


-*»- 


240 


THR     M0NCTON8. 


bood  joined  to  condemn.  If  others  had  only  treated  me  half  m 
well,  I  should  not  have  been  reduced  to  such  straits." 

"Alice,  you  must  not  stay  hero  in  these  wet  clothes.  You  will 
get  your  death.    Lean  on  my  arm,     I  will  take  you  home." 

"  Homo  1  I  have  no  homo.  I  daro  not  go  home.  She  is 
there  I  and  she  will  taunt  mo  with  this,  and  drive  mc  mad  again." 

"  Then  come  to  the  Hall,  Alice  ;  I  will  talk  to  you  there,  and 
no  one  shall  hear  us  but  your  own  Margaret." 

"  God  bles.s  you,  Miss  Moncton,  for  all  your  kindness.  It 
would,  indeed,  be  a  great  relief  to  tell  you  all  the  grief  that  fills 
my  heart.  Yes,  I  will  go  witii  you  to-night.  The  morrow  may 
toko  care  of  the  things  that  belong  to  it.  Now,  or  never. 
There  may  be  no  to-morrow  on  earth  for  mo." 

"  Cheer  up,  poor  heart.  There  may  bo  happiness  in  store  for 
you  yet,"  said  Margaret, 

"  For  me  ?"  and  Alice  looked  up  with  an  incredulous  smile  ; 
so  sad,  so  dreary,  it  was  enough  to  make  you  weep,  that  wild 
glance  passing  over  her  wan  features.  "  Oh,  never  again  for 
me." 

She  suffered  herself  to  be  led  between  us  to  the  Hall.  Mar- 
garet directing  me  by  a  path  that  led  through  the  gardens  to  a 
private  entrance  at  the  back  of  the  house.  Alice  was  com- 
pletely exhausted  by  her  former  violence,  I  had  to  put  my  arm 
round  her  slender  waist,  to  support  her  up  the  marble  stair- 
case. I  left  her  with  Margaret,  at  her  chamber-door,  and 
retired  to  my  own  apartment,  to  change  my  wet  clothes. 

Miss  Moncton  did  not  come  down  to  tea. 

Sir  Alexander  was  in  the  fidgets  about  her.  "  Where's 
Madge?  What  the  deuce  is  the  matter  with  the  girl.  She 
went  out  with  you,  Geoffrey,  as  fresli  as  a  lark.  I  will  hold  you 
responsible  for  her  non-appearance," 

I  thought  it  best  to  relate  what  had  happened.  He  looked 
very  grave, 

"A  sad  business.     A  very  sad   business.     I  wish   Madge 


i 


THE     MONCTONS. 


2il 


would  keep  her  hands  clear  of  that  girl.  I  om  Rorry  for  her, 
too.  Hut  you  know,  Geoffrey,  we  cannot  set  the  opinion  of  the 
world  entirely  at  defiance.  And  what  a  man  may  do  with 
impunity,  a  young  lady  must  not." 

"  Miss  Moncton  has  acted  with  true  Christian  charity.  It  is 
a  thousand  pities  that  such  examples  arc  so  rare." 

"  Don't  think  I  blamo  Madge,  Geoffrey.  She  is  a  dear, 
good  girl,  a  little  angel.  But  it  is  rather  imprudent  of  her  to 
bring  the  mistress  of  Thcophilus  home  to  tho  houso.  What  will 
Mrs.  Grundy  say  ?" 

"Margaret  has  no  Mrs.  Grundics,"  said  I,  rather  indignantly. 
"  She  will  not  admit  such  vulgar,  common-place  wretches  into 
her  society.     To  the  pure  in^heart  all  things  are  pure." 

"  Well  done  1  young  champion  of  dames.  You  will  not  suffer 
Margaretta  to  be  blamed  without  taking  her  part,  I  see.'' 

"  Particularly,  sir,  when  I  know  and  feel  that  she  is  in  the 
right." 

"  She  and  I  must  have  a  serious  talk  on  ihia  subject,  to-mor- 
row. In  the  meanwhile,  Geoff,  bring  here  the  chess-board,  and 
let  us  get  through  a,  dull  evening  in  the  best  way  we  can." 


11 


U2 


THE  M0NCT0N3 


CHAPTER    XXIII. 


A   DISCOVERY. 


i  f 


The  next  morniDg  I  received  from  Margaretta,  a  circumstan- 
tial detail  of  what  had  passed  between  Alice  and  her  on  the 
previous  evening. 

"  After  I  undressed  and  got  her  to  bed,  she  fell  into  a  deep 
sleep,  which  lasted  until  midnight.  1  was  reading  by  the  table, 
not  feeling  at  all  inclined  to  rest.  Hearing  her  moving,  I  went 
to  her,  and  sat  down  on  the  bed,  and  asked  how  she  felt 
herself. 

"  *  Better  in  mind.  Miss  Moncton,  but  far  from  well.  My  head 
aches  badly,  and  I  have  a  dull  pain  in  my  chest.' 

•* '  You  have  taken  cold,  Alice.     I  must  send  for  the  doctor.' 

"  '  Oh  1  no,  no.  He  could  do  me  no  good — mine  is  a  malady 
of  the  heart.  If  my  mind  were  at  ease,  I  should  be  quite  well. 
I  do  not  wish  to  get  well.     The  sooner  I  die  the  better.* 

**  *  Alice,  you  must  not  talk  so.     It  is  very  sinful.' 

"  *  You  are  right.  I  am  a  great  sinner.  I  know  it  only  too 
well.  But  I  cannot  repent.  All  is  dark  here,'  and  she  laid  her 
hand  upon  her  head.  '  I  cannot  see  my  way  through  this  thick 
darkness — this  darkness  that  can  be  felt.  You  know.  Miss 
Moncton,  what  the  Bible  says,  "  Tiie  light  of  the  wicked  shall 
be  put  out  in  obscure  darkness."  My  light  of  life  has  been  extin- 
guished, and  the  night  of  eternal  darkness  has  closed  over  nie.' 

"  *  We  must  pray  to  God,  Alice,  to  enlighten  this  awful 
darkness.' 


THE     M0N0T0N8. 


243 


J 


•'  *  Pray  1 — I  cannot  pray.  I  am  too  hard — too  proud  to  pray. 
'  God  has  forsaken  and  left  me  to  myself.  If  I  could  discern  one 
ray  of  light — one  faint  glimmer  only,  I  might  cherish  hope.' 

"  There  was  something  so  truly  melancholy,  in  this  description 
of  the  state  of  her  mind,  Geoffrey,  that  I  could  not  listen  to 
her  with  dry  eyes. 

"  Alice,  for  her  part,  shed  no  tears,  but  regarded  my  emotions 
with  a  look  of  mingled  pity  and  surprise,  while  the  latent 
insanity,  under  which  I  am  sure  she  is  laboring,  kindled  a  glow 
on  her  death-pale  face.  Rising  slowly  in  the  bed,  she  grasped 
my  arm. 

"  *  Why  do  you  weep  ?  Do  you  dare  to  think  me  guilty  of 
that  nameless  crime  ?  Margaretta  Moncton,  you  should  know 
me  better.  Don't  you  remember  the  ballad  we  once  learned  to 
repeat,  when  we  were  girls  together  ? — 

***  Not  mine  to  scowl  a  guilty  eye, 
Oi'  bear  the  brand  of  shame  ; 
Oh,  God !  to  brook  the  taunting  look 
Of  Fillan's  wedded  dame. 

"  *  But  the  lady  bore  the  brand  in  spite  of  all  her  boasting. 
But  I  do  not.  I  am  a  wife — His  lawful  wedded  wife,  and  my 
boy  was  no  child  of  shame,  and  he  dare  not  deny  it.  And 
yet,'  she  continued,  falling  back  upon  her  pillow,  and  clutching 
the  bed-clothes  in  her  convulsive  grasp,  'Ae  spurned  me  from 
him — me,  his  wife — the  mother  of  his  child.  Yes,  Miss  Monc- 
ton, spurned  mc  from  his  presence,  with  hard  words  and  bitter 
taunts.  I  could  have  borne  the  loss  of  his  love,  for  I  have  long 
ceased  to  respect  him.     But  this — this  has  maddened  me.' 

"  I  was  perfectly  astonished  at  his  unexpected  disclosure. 
Seemg  doubt  expressed  in  ray  face,  she  grew  angry  and  vehement. 

"  *  It  is  true.  Why  do  you  doubt  my  word  ?  I  scorn  to 
,  utter  a  falsehood.  When,  Miss  Moncton,  did  I  ever  during  our 
long  friendship  deceive  you  V 


\f?-' 


(I 


244 


THE    MONCTONS. 


" '  Never,  Alice.  But  your  story  seemed  improbable.  Like 
you,  I  am  in  the  habit  of  speaking  fearlessly  my  mind.' 

"  She  drew  from  her  bosom  a  plain  gold  ring,  suspended  by  a 
black  ribbon  round  her  neck. 

"  '  With  this  ring  we  were  married  in  Moncton  church.  Our 
bans  were  published  there,  in  your  father's  hearing,  but  he  toolj 
no  heed  of  the  parties  named.  I  have  the  certificate  of  my 
marriage,  and  Mr.  Selden,  who  married  us  under  the  promise  of 
secresy,  can  prove  the  truth  of  what  I  say.  The  marriage  was 
private,  because  Theophilus  was  afraid  of  incurring  his  father's 
anger.' 

"  '  And  what  h<js  become  of  your  child,  Alice  ?' 

"  *  He  is  dead,'  she  said,  mournfully.  *  He  caught  cold, 
during  a  long  journey  to  London,  which  I  undertook  unknown 
to  my  grandmother,  in  the  hope  of  moving  the  hard  heart  of  my 
cruel  husband.  It  was  of  no  earthly  use.  I  lost  my  child,  and 
the  desolate  heart  of  the  forsaken,  is  now  doubly  desolate.' 

"  The  allusion  to  her  baby  seemed  to  soften  the  iron  obstinacy 
of  her  grief,  and  she  gave  way  to  a  passionate  burst  of  tears. 
This,  I  have  no  doubt  tranquillized  her  mind.  She  grew  calmer 
and  more  collected — consented  to  take  some  refreshments,  and 
then  unfolded  to  me  at  length,  the  tale  of  her  wrongs. 

"  Oh,  Geoffrey  I  what  a  monster  that  Theophilus  Moncton 
must  be.  I  may  be  wrong  to  say  so,  but  I  almost  wish  that 
poor  Alice  were  not  his  wife,  and  so  will  you,  after  you  have 
heard  all  that  I  have  to  tell  you. 

"  Theophilus,  it  appears,  from  her  statements,  took  a  fancy  to 
Alice,  when  she  was  a  mere  child,  and  his  passion  strengthened 
for  her  at  every  visit  he  subsequently  paid  to  the  Hall. 

"After  using  every  inducement  to  overcome  her  integrity, 
rather  than  lose  his  victim,  he  proposed  a  private  marriage. 

"  This  gratified  the  ambition  of  the  unfortunate  girl,  who 
knew,  that  in  case  of  my  father  dymg  without  male  issue,  her 


3^1 


I 


THE     MONCTONS. 


245 


m 


t  at 


lover  would  be  the  heir  of  Moncton.  She  was  only  too  glad  to 
close  with  his  oflFer,  and  they  were  married  in  the  parish  church 
by  the  Rev.  Mr.  Selden,  all  the  parties  necessary  to  the  perfor- 
mance of  tho  ceremony  being  sworu^and  bribed  to  secresy. 

"  For  a  few  months  Theophilus  lavished  on  his  young  bride 
great  apparent  affection,  and  at  this  period,  his  visits  to  the 
Hall  were  very  frequent. 

"  Alice,  who  had  always  been  treated  like  a  sister  by  me,  now 
grew  pert  and  familiar.  This  alteration  in  her  former  respectful 
'  manner  greatly  displeased  my  father.  '  These  Morningtons,' 
he  said,  *  are  unworthy  of  the  kindness  we  have  bestowed  upon 
them,  and  like  all  low  people,  when  raised  above  their  station, 
they  become  insolent  and  familiar.' 

"  Rumor  had  always  ascribed  young  Moncton's  visits  to  the 
Hall,  to  an  attachment  he  had  formed  for  me.  The  gossips  of 
the  village  chanrrt'  'i  ^^ir  tone,  and  his  amour  with  Alice  became 
the  scandal  of  th    -    / 

"  My  father  having  ascertained  that  there  was  some  truth 
in  these  infamous  reports,  sent  me  to  spend  my  first  winter  in 
London,  with  Lady  Grey,  my  mother's  only  sister,  and  told 
Dinah  North  that  her  grand-daughter  for  the  future  would  be 
considered  as  a  stranger  by  his  family. 

"  I  wrote  to  Alice  from  London,  telling  her  that  I  could  not 
believe  the  evil  thiiigs  said  of  her  ;  and  begged  her,  as  she 
valued  my  love  and  friendship,  to  lose  no  time  in  clearing  up 
the  aspersions  cast  upon  her  character. 

"  To  my  earnest  and  affectionate  appeal,  she  returned  no  an- 
swer, and  all  intercourse  between  us  ceased. 

"  Three  months  after  this,  she  became  a  mother,  and  my  father 
forbade  me  to  mention  her  name. 

"  It  appears,  that  from  this  period  she  saw  little  of  her  hus- 
band. That  he,  repenting  bitterly  of  his  sudden  marriage,  treated 
her  with  coldness  and  neglect 


m 


2';6 


THE     UONCTONS. 


"  Dinah  North,  who  was  privy  to  her  marriage,  took  a  jour- 
ney to  London,  to  try  and  force  Mr.  Moncton  to  acknowledge 
her  granddaughter  as  his  son's  wife  ;  in  case  of  his  refusal  threat- 
ening to  expose  conduct  of  his  which  would  not  bear  investi- 
gation. 

**  Dinah  failed  in  her  mission — a*  u  my  dear  father,  pitying 
the  condition  of  the  forlorn  girl,  sought  himself  an  interview 
with  Mr.  Moncton  on  her  behalf,  in  which  he  begged  your 
uncle  to  use  his  influence  with  Theophilus,  to  make  her  his 
wife.  i 

"The  young  man  had  been  sent  abroad,  and  Mr.  Moncton 
received  my  father's  proposition  with  indignation  and  contempt, 
and  threatened  to  disinherit  Theophilus  if  he  dared  to  take  such 
a  step  without  his  knowledge  and  consent. 

"  In  the  meanwhile,  the  unfortunate  Alice,  withering  beneath 
the  blighting  influence  of  hope  deferred,  and  unmerited  neglect, 
lost  her  health,  her  beauty,  and  by  her  own  account,  at  times 
her  reason. 

"Hearing  that  her  husband  had  returned  to  England,  she 
wrote  to  him  a  letter  full  of  forgiveness,  and  breathing  the  most 
devoted  affection — and  told  him  of  the  birth  of  his  son,  whom 
she  described,  "'ith  all  a  mother's  doting  love. 

"  To  this  letter  she  received,  after  a  long  and  torturing  delay, 
the  following  unfeeling  answer.  She  gave  me  this  precious 
document.  a 

"  Read  it,  Geoffrey.  It  puts  me  into  a  fever  of  indignation  ; 
I  cannot  read  it  a  second  time." 

I  took  the  letter  from  her  hand. 

How  well  I  knew  that  scrupulously  neat  and  feminine  speci- 
men of  caligraphy.  It  was  an  autograph  worthy  of  Queen 
Elizabeth,  so  regularly  was  each  letter  formed,  the  lines  running 
in  exact  parallels  ;  no  flutter  of  the  heart  causing  the  least 
deviation  from  the  exact  rule.    It  ran  as  follows : 


i* 


THE     MONCTOKS. 


24t 


"  Why  do  you  coatiaue  to  trouble  tne  with  letters  which  are  not  worth 
the  postage?  I  h:  u  (o  receive  them,  and  from  this  time  forward  will 
return  them  unopened. 

"  Your  best  policy  is  to  remain  quiet,  or  I  will  disown  the  connection 

between  us,  and  free  myself  from  your  importunity  by  consigning  you  to 

ft  mad-house. 

"T M- 


» 


m 


"  Unfeeling  scoundrel  I"  I  exclaimed  ;  "  surely  this  affectionate 
billet  must  have  destroyed  the  last  spark  of  affection  in  the 
breast  of  the  unhappy  girl." 

"Women  are  strange  creatures,  Geoffrey,  and  often  cling 
with  most  pertinacity  to  those  who  care  little  for  their  regard, 
while  they  take  a  perverse  pleasure  in  slighting  those  who  really 
love  them— so  it  is  with  Alice.  The  worse  he  treated  her,  the 
more  vehemently  she  clung  to  him.  To  make  a  final  appeal  to 
his  callous  heart  she  undertook  the  journey  to  London  alone, 
with  her  baby  in  her  arms,  and  succeeded  under  a  feigned  name 
in  getting  admittance  to  her  husband. 

"  You  knov/  the  result.  He  spurned  the  wife  and  child  from 
his  presence.  The  infant  was  taken  sick  on  its  homeward  jour- 
ney, and  died  shortly  after  she  reached  her  grandmother's 
cottage ;  and  she,  poor  creature,  will  soon  follow  it  to  the  grave, 
for  I  am  convinced  that  she  is  dying  of  a  broken  heart." 

Margaret  was  quite  overcome  with  this  sad  relation.  Wiping 
the  tears  from  her  eloquent  black  eyes,  and  looking  me  sadly  in 
the  face,  she  said,  with  great  earnestness  : 

"  And  now,  Geoffrey,  what  can  we  do  to  serve  her  ?" 

"  Inform  Sir  Alexander  of  these  particulars.  Let  him  obtain 
from  Alice  the  legal  proofs  of  her  marriage,  and  force  this  base 
Theophilus — this  disgrace  to  the  name  of  a  man,  and  of  Monc- 
ton,  to  acknowledge  her  publicly  as  his  wife.  Id  the  meanwhile, 
I  will  write  to  her  brother,  and  inform  him  of  this  important 
discovery." 


I 


^< 


248 


THE     MONO TONS 


"  Her  brother  \"  and  Margaretta  turned  as  pale  as  death  ; 
*'  what  do  you  know  of  Philip  Morningtou  ?" 

"  He  is  my  friend — my  dearest,  most  valued  friend.'^ 

"  Thank  God  he  is  alive  I" 

''  And  likely  to  live,''  said  I,  leading  her  to  a  chair  ;  for  we 
had  been  standing  during  our  long  conversation  in  the  deep 
recess  of  the  library  window.  "  Margaret,  will  you  be  offended 
if  I  ask  you  one  question  ?" 

"  Not  in  the  least,  cousin." 

"  And  will  you  answer  me  with  your  usual  candor  ?" 

"  Why  should  you  doubt  it,  Geoffrey  ?"  she  said,  trembling 
with  agitation. 

"  Do  you  love  Philip  Mornington  V 

"  I  do,  Geoffrey — I  have  loved  him  from  a  child,  but  not  in 
the  way  you  mean — not  such  love  as  a  girl  feels  for  her  lover. 
I  could  not  think  of  him  for  one  moment  as  my  husband — no,  it 
is  a  strange  interest  I  feel  in  his  destiny — I  feel  as  if  he  were  a 
part  of  me,  as  if  I  had  a  natural  right  to  love  him.  He  is  so 
like  my  father,  only  milder  and  less  impdtuous,  that  I  have 
thought  it  possible  that  he  might  be  his  natural  son — and  if  so, 
my  brother." 

What  a  relief  was  this  declaration  to  my  mind.  I  could  not, 
for  a  moment,  doubt  its  sincerity,  and  I  rejoiced  that  the  dear 
tender-hearted  creature  before  me,  was  not  likely  to  wreck  her 
peace  in  loving  one  whom  she  could  not  wed. 

Yet,  that  she  did  love  some  one  I  felt  certain  ;  and  though  I 
dared  not  prosecute  the  inquiry,  it  was  a  problem  that  I  v/as 
very  anxious  to  solve. 

I  left  my  fair  cousin,  to  write  a  long  letter  to  George  Harri- 
son, in  which  I  duly  informed  him  of  all  that  had  taken  place 
since  I  left  Loudon. 


THE     M0NCT0N8 


249 


CHAPTER    XXIV. 


MY  SECOND    INTERVIEW   "WITH   DINAH    NORTH. 


d! 


An  hour  Lad  scarcely  elapsed,  when  I  received  a  message  from 
Miss  Moncton,  requesting  my  presence  in  the  drawing-room, 
where  I  found  her  engaged  in  an  earnest  conversation  with  Alice, 
who  looked  more  like  a  resuscitated  corpse,  than  a  living  crea- 
ture ;  so  pale  and  death-like  were  her  beautiful  features. 

She  held  out  her  hand,  as  I  approached  the  sofa  on  which  she 
was  reclining  ;  and  thanked  me  in  low  and  earnest  tones  for  sav- 
ing her  life.  There  was  an  expression  of  pride,  almost  aristo- 
cratic, on  her  finely  cut  lips,  which  seemed  to  contradict  the 
gratitude  she  expressed.  • 

"  I  was  not  in  my  right  mind,  Mr.  Geoffrey, — no  one. if,  I 
have  read  and  been  told,  who  makes  an  attempt  upon  his  own 
life.  I  had  suffered  a  great  calamity,  and  wanted  moral  courage 
to  bear  it :  I  trust  God  will  forgive  me." 

I  told  her  that  I  deeply  sympathized  with  her  unfortunate 
situation,  and  would  gladly  do  anything  in  my  power  to 
serve  her. 

"  That  is  more  than  Theophilus  would  do  for  you.  If  there 
is  a  person  whom  he  hates  more  than  me,  it  is  yourself.  You 
can  serve  me  very  materially.  Miss  Moncton  tells  me,  that  you 
know  my  brother  Philip,  intimately." 

I  nodded  assent. 

"Write  to  him,  and  tell  him  from  me,  how  sincerely  I 
repent  my  past  conduct  to  him — that  I  am  not  quite  the  guilty 

11* 


m 


250 


TUB     MONCTONS. 


creature  he  took  ma  for  ;  though  swayed  by  minds  moro 
daringly  wicked  to  commit  evil.  Tell  him  not  to  avenge  my 
wrongs  on  Theophilus.  There  is  one  In  heaven  who  v/ill  be  my 
Avenger — who  never  lets  the  thoroughly  bad  escape  unpunished  ; 
and  tell  him,"  and  she  drew  a  deep  sigh —  ihat  Alice  Monctou 
died  blessing  him."       -  . 

"  Shall  I  go  to  London,  and  bring  him  down  to  see  you  ?" 

"No,  no  I"  she  cried,  in  evident  alarm,  "  he  must  not  be  seen 
in  this  neighborhood." 

"  That  would  be  bringing  the  dead  to  life,"  said  I,  pointedly. 
She  gave  me  a  furtive  look.  ' 

"  Yes,  Alice,  Philip  told  me  that  dreadful  story.  I  do  not 
wonder  at  your  repugnance  to  his  coming  here  ;  and  were  it  not 
for  your  share  in  the  business,  I  would  commit  that  atrocious 
woman  to  take  her  trial  at  the  next  assizes." 

"Horrible  1"  muttered  Alice,  hiding  her  face  in  the  sofa  pil- 
lows. "  I  did  not  think  that  Philip  would  betray  me,  iifter  all  I 
did  to  save  his  life." 

"Your  secret  is  safe  with  me.  I  would  to  G'^d,  that  other 
family  secrets  known  to  you  and  Dinah,  were  in  my  keeping." 

"  I  wish  they  were,  Mr.  Geoffrey,  for  I  have  too  much  upon 
my  conscience,  overburdened  as  it  is  with  the  crimes  of  others. 
But  I  cannot  tell  you  many  things  important  for  you  to 
know,  for  my  lips  are  sealed  with  an  oath  too  terrible  to  be 
broken."  ^ 

"  Then  I  must  go  to  Dinah,"  I  said  angrily,  "  and  wrest  the 
truth  from  her." 

Alice  burst  into  a  wild  laugh — "  Rack  and  faggot  would  not 
do  it,  if  she  were  determined  to  hold  her  tongue — nay,  she 
would  suffer  that  tongue  to  be  torn  out  (f  her  head,  before  she 
would  confess  a  crime,  unless,  indeed,  she  were  goaded  on  by 
revenge.    Listen,  Mr.  Geoffrey,  to  the  advice  of  a  dying  woman. 

"  Leave  Dinah  North  to  God  and  her  own  conscience.    Be- 


THE     MO  NCTONS. 


251 


;  the 


m 


I.  ■■« 


fore  many  months  are  over,  her  hatred  to  Robert  Moncton  and 
hia  son  will  tear  the  reluctant  secret  from  her.  Hud  my  son 
lived,"  another  heavy  sigh,  "  it  would  have  been  diflferent.  Her 
ambition,  like  my  love,  has  become  dust  and  ashes."  n 

"Alice,"  I  said  solemnly,  "you  have  no  right  to  withhold 
knowledge  which  involves  the  happiness  of  others  j  even  for 
your  oath's  sake." 

"  It  may  be  so,  but  that  oath  involves  an  eternal  penalty 
which  I  dare  not  bring  n;^on  ray  soul." 

"God  can  absolve  from  all  rash  vows." 

"  Ay,  those  who  believe  in  Him,  who  love  and  trust  Him.  I 
believe,  simply  because  I  fear.  But  love  and  trust, — alas,  the 
comfort,  the  assurance  which  springs  from  faith,  was  never  felt 
by  me." 

"  Dinah  may  die,  and  the  secret  may  perish  with  her  "  cried 
I,  growing  desperate  to  obtain  information  on  a  subject  of  such 
vital  importance  to  my  friend — perhaps  to  me. 

"  That  is  nothing  to  me,"  she  replied,  coldly. 

"  Selfish,  ungenerous  woman  !" 

She  smiled  scornfully.  "  The  world,  and  your  family  espe- 
cially, have  given  me  great  encouragement  to  be  liberal." 

"  Is  Philip  your  brother  ?"  I  cried,  vehemently,  determined  to 
storm  the  secret  out  of  her. 

"  What  is  that  to  you  ?  Yet,  perhaps,  if  the  truth  were 
told,  you  would  be  the  first  to  wish  it  buried  in  oblivion." 

There  was  a  lurking  fire  in  her  eye  as  she  said  this,  that 
startled  me. 

"  Do  you  wish  to  prosecute  the  inquiry  ?"  she  added,  with  the 
bitter  smile  which  made  her  face,  though  beautiful,  very  repulsive. 

A  glance  of  co&tempt  was  my  sole  answer. 

"Well,  once  for  all  I  will  tell  you,  Mr.  Geoffrey,  lawyer 
though  you  be,  that  your  cross-questioning  is  useless.  What  I 
know  about  you  and  yours  shall  remain  unknown,  as  far  as  I 


252 


THE     MONCTONS. 


• 


am  concerned— and  shall  go  down  with  me  to  the  grave.  The 
memory  of  my  mother  is  too  dear  to  me  for  any  words  of  yours 
to  drag  from  me  the  trust  she  reposed  in  me.  You  have  had 
your  answer.    Go — I  wish  to  be  alone." 

In  vain  I  argued,  entreated,  and  even  threatened.  There  was 
too  much  of  the  leaven  of  Old  Dinah  in  her  granddaughter's 
character  for  her  to  listen  to  reason. 

She  became  violent  and  obstinate,  and  put  an  end  to  this 
strange  conference  by  rising,  and  abruptly  leaving  the  room. 
I  looked  after  her  with  feelings  less  tinctured  with  compassion 
than  annoyance  and  contempt. 

"  Forgive  her,  Geo£frey,"  said  Margaret,  who  had  listened  iu 
silent  astonishment  to  the  conversation  ;  "  her  reason  is  dis- 
ordered ;  she  does  not  know  what  she  says." 

**  The  madness  of  wickedness,"  I  said,  sharply.  "  She  is  as 
■wide  awake  as  a  fox.  It  may  seem  harsh  to  say  so,  but  I  feel 
little  pity  for  her.  She  is  artful  and  selfish  iu  the  extreme,  and 
deserves  her  fate.  Just  review,  for  a  moment,  her  past 
life." 

"  It  will  not  bear  investigation,  Geoffrey.  Yet,  with  all  these 
faults  I  loved  her  so  fondly — love  her  still,  and  will  never  desert 
her  while  a  hope  remains,  that  through  my  instrumentality  her 
mind  may  be  diverted  to  the  contemplation  of  better  things." 

"  She  is  not  worthy  of  the  trouble  you  take  about  her,"  said 
I,  shrugging  my  shoulders.  "  Have  you  informed  your  father 
of  her  marriage  with  Theophilus  ?" 

*'  Yes,  and  he  was  astonished.  Theophilus  was  the  last  per- 
son in  the  world,  he  thought,  who  would  commit  himself  in  tliat 
way.  Papa  said,  that  he  would  write  to  Robert  Moncton,  and 
make  a  statement  of  the  facts.  I  could  almost  pity  him  ;  this 
news  will  throw  him  into  such  a  transport  of  rage. 

"  When  Robert  Moncton  feels  the  most,  he  says  little.  He 
acts  with  silent,  deadly  force.    He  seldom  speaks.    He  will 


I    \Ki 


TH  E     UONOTON  8. 


253 


f 


He 
will 


curse  Theophilns  in  his  heart,  but  speak  fair  of  him  to  his  ene- 
mies.     I  am  anxious  to  know  how  all  this  will  end." 

"  My  father  wanted  to  see  you  in  the  library,"  said  Marga- 
retta.  "Your  conversation  with  Alice  put  it  entirely  out  of 
my  head." 

I  found  Sir  Alexander  seated  at  a  table,  surrounded  with 
papers.  If  there  was  one  thing  my  good  old  friend  hated  more 
than  another,  it  was  writing  letters.  "  Wise  men  speak — fools 
write  their  thoughts,"  was  a  favorite  saying  of  his.  He  ilung 
the  pen  pettishly  from  him  as  I  entered  the  room. 

•'  Zounds,  Geoffrey  !  I  cannot  delile  paper  with  writing  to 
that  scoundrel.  I  will  see  him  myself.  It  will  bo  some  satisfac- 
tion to  witness  his  chagrin.  Who  knows,  but  in  the  heat  of  his 
displeasure,  he  may  say  something  that  will  uflFord  a  clue  lo 
unravel  his  treachery  towards  yourself.  At  all  events,  I  am 
determined  to  make  the  experiment." 

"  He  will  make  no  sign.  Robert  Moncton  never  betrays 
himself." 

"  To  think  that  his  clever  Theophilus  could  make  such  a  low 
marriage  ;  not  but  that  the  girl  is  far  too  good  for  him,  and 
I  think  the  degradation  is  entirely  on  her  side." 

"  The  pair  are  worthy  of  each  other,"  said  I. 

"  You  are  unjust  to  Alice,  Geoffrey.  The  girl  was  a  beauty, 
and  so  clever,  till  he  spoilt  her." 

"  The  tiger  is  a  beautiful  animal,  and  the  fox  is  clever  j  but 
we  hate  the  one,  despise  the  other." 

The  Baronet  gave  me  a  curious  look. 

"  How  came  you  to  form  this  character  of  the  girl  ?" 

"  Partly  from  observation  ;  partly  from  some  previous  know- 
ledge, obtained  from  a  reliable  source,  before  I  left  London." 

"  But  what  of  this  journey,"  I  said,  anxious  to  turn  the  con- 
Tersation.  "  Do  you  seriously  contemplate  again  going  up  to 
town?" 


264 


TUK     MONOTONS. 


"  It  is  already  decided.  I  have  ordered  the  carriage  to  be  at 
the  door  by  eight  to-morrow  inorniiig." 

"  I  do  not  asit  you  to  accompany  me,  Geoffrey.  I  have  busi- 
ness cut  out  for  you  during  my  absence.  You  must  start 
to-morrow  for  Derbyshire,  and  visit  the  parish  in  which  your 
grandfather  resided  for  many  years  as  curate,  under  the  Rev. 
James  Brownson  ;  and  wh>)vo  your  mother  was  born.  I  will 
supply  the  necessary  funds  for  the  journey." 

"  And  the  object  of  this  visit  ?"  I  cried,  eagerly. 

"  To  take  lodgings  in ,  or  in  the  neighborhood,  and, 

under  a  feigned  name,  prosecute  inquiries  respecting  your 
mother's  marriage.  There  must  still  be  many  persons  living 
to  whom  Ellen  Rivers  and  her  father  were  well-known,  who 
might  give  you  much  valuable  information  respecting  her  elope- 
ment with  your  father,  and  what  was  said  about  it  by  the  gos- 
sips at  the  time.  If  you  find  the  belief  general,  that  they  were 
married,  ascertain  the  church  in  which  the  ceremony  was  said  to 
have  been  performed — the  name  of  the  clergyman  who  offici- 
ated, and  t'le  witnesses  who  were  present.  All  these  particu- 
lars are  of  the  greatest  importance  for  us  to  know. 

"  Take  the  best  riding-horse  in  the  stable,  and  if  your  money 
fails  you,  draw  upon  me  for  more.  You  may  adopt,  for  the 
time  being,  my  mother's  family  name,  and  call  yourself  Mr. 
Tremain,  to  which  address,  all  letters  from  the  Hall  will  be  sent. 

"  Should  Robert  Moncton  drop  any  hints,  which  can  in  any 
way  further  the  object  of  your  search,  I  will  not  fail  to  write 
you  word. 

"  We  will,  if  you  please,  start  at  the  same  hour  to-morrow  ; 
each  on  our  different  mission  ;  and  may  God  grant  us  success, 
and  a  happy  meeting.  And,  now,  you  may  go  and  prepare  for 
your  adventure." 

I  had  long  wished  to  prosecute  this  inquiry.  Yet,  now  the 
moment  had  arrived,  I  felt  loath  to  leave  the  Hall. 


TQfi     MO  N  CTO  N  8 . 


355 


r 


The  society  and  presence  of  Margarctta  had  become  neces- 
sary to  my  happiness.  Yet,  inconsistently  enough,  I  fancied 
myself  desperately  in  love  with  Catharine  Lee.  I  never  sus- 
pected that  my  passion  for  the  one  was  ideal — the  first  love  of 
a  boy  ;  while  that  for  the  latter,  was  real  and  tangible. 

How  we  suffer  youth  and  imajijination  to  deceive  U8  in 
affairs  of  the  heart.  Wo  love  a  name,  and  invest  the  person 
who  bears  it  with  a  thousand  perfections,  which  have  no  exist- 
ence in  reality.  The  object  of  our  idolatry,  is  not  a  child  of 
nature,  but  a  creation  of  fancy,  fostered  in  solitude  by  ignorance 
and  self-love.  Marriages,  which  are  tlio  offspring  of  tirst-l  we, 
are  proverbially  unhappy  from  this  very  circumstance,  which 
leads  us  to  overrate,  during  the  period  of  courtship,  the  virtues 
of  the  beloved  in  the  most  extravagant  manner  ;  and  this  8p(3- 
cies  of  adoration  generally  ends  in  disappointment — too  often  in 
disgust. 

Boys  and  girls  in  their  teens,  are  beings  without  much  reflec- 
tion. Their  knowledge  of  character,  with  regard  to  themselves 
and  others,  is  too  limited  and  imperfect  to  enable  them  to  make 
a  judicious  choice. 

They  love  the  first  person  who  pleases  the  eye  and  charms  the 
fancy — for  love  is  a  matter  of  necessity  at  that  age. 

Time  divests  their  idol  of  all  its  imaginary  perfections,  and 
they  feel,  too  late,  that  they  have  made  a  wrong  choice. 

Though  love  may  laugh  at  the  cold  maxims  of  prudence  and 
reason,  yet  it  requires  the  full  exercise  of  both  qualities  >■■:•  ':>cure 
for  any  length  of  time  domestic  happiness. 

I  can  reason  calmly  now,  ou  this  exciting  subject.  But  I 
reasoned  not  calmly  then.  I  was  a  creature  of  passion,  and 
passionate  impulses.  The  woman  I  loved  had  no  fault  in  my 
eyes.  To  have  supposed  her  liable  to  the  common  errors  and 
follies  of  her  sex  would  have  been  an  act  of  treason  against  the 
deity  1  worshipped. 


m 


THK    MONCTONS 


I  retired  to  my  chamber,  and  finished  my  letter  to  Harrison. 

The  day  wore  slowly  away,  as  it  always  does,  when  you 
expect  any  important  event  on  the  morrow. " 

The  evening  was  bright  and  beautiful  as  an  evening  in  June 
could  well  be.  Margaretta  had  only  been  visible  at  dinner,  her 
time  having  been  occupied  between  Alice  and  making  prepara- 
tions for  her  father's  journey. 

At  tea,  she  looked  languid,  and  paler  than  usual,  and  when 
we  rose  from  the  table  1  proposed  a  stroll  in  the  Park.  She 
consented  with  a  smile  of  pleasure,  and  we  were  soon  wandering 
side  by  side  beneath  our  favorite  trees. 

"  You  will  feel  very  lonely  during  your  father's  absence,  my 
little  cousin  ?" 

"  Then  you  must  exert  all  your  powers  of  pleasing,  Geoffrey, 
to  supply  his  place." 

*'  But  I  am  going  too — I  leave  Moncton  at  the  same  time,  for 
an  indefinite  period." 

"  Worse  and  worse,"  and  she  tried  to  smile.  It  would  not 
do.  The  tears  were  in  her  beautiful  eyes.  That  look  of  tender 
inquiry  caused  a  strange  swelling  at  my  heart. 

"  You  will  not  forget  me,  Margaret  ?" 

"Do  you  think  it  such  an  easy  matter,  that  you  deem  it 
necessary  to  make  such  a  request." 

"  I  am  but  a  poor  relation,  whom  few  persons  would  regard 
with  other  feelings  than  those  of  indifference.  This  I  know,  is 
not  the  case  with  your  excellent  father  and  you.  I  shall  ever 
regard  both  with  gratitude  and  veneration — and  I  feel  certain, 
that  should  we  never  meet  again,  I  should  always  be  remem- 
bered with  affectionate  kindness." 

"  You  know  not  how  deservedly  dear  you  are  to  us  both. 
How  much  we  love  you,  Geoffrey — and  I  would  fain  hope  that 
these  sentiments  are  reciprocal." 

Though  this  was  said  in  perfect  simplicity.    The  flushed  cheek, 


M 


'i  ;a 


THE    MONCTONS . 


257 


I      m 


cheek, 


and  down-east  eye,  revealed  the  state  of  the  speaker's  heart, 
I  felt — I  knew — she  loved  me.  But,  madman  that  I  was,  out 
of  mere  contradiction,  I  considered  myself  bound  by  a  romantic 
attachment,  which  had  never  been  declared  by  word  or  sign,  to 
Catherine  Lee. 

"  You  love  me,  dear  Margaret,"  I  cried,  as  I  clasped  her  hand 
in  mine,  and  kissed  it  with  more  warmth  than  the  disclosure  I 
was  about  to  make,  warranted. 

"God  knows  1  how  happy  this  blessed  discovery  would  have 
made  me,  had  not  my  affections  been  pre-engaged." 

A  deep  blush  mantled  over  her  face — she  trembled  violently 
as  she  gently  drew  her  hand  from  mine — and  answered  with  a 
modest  dignity,  which  was  the  offspring  of  purit ,  and  truth, 

"  I  will  not  deny,  Geoffrey,  that  1  love  you.  That  what  you 
have  said  gives  me  severe  pain.  We  are  not  accountable  for 
our  affections — I  am  sorry  that  I  suffered  my  foolish  heart  to 
betray  me.  Yet,  I  must  love  you  still,  cOusin,"  she  said,  weep- 
ing. "  Your  very  misfortunes  endear  you  to  me.  Forget  this 
momentary  weakness,  and  only  think  of  me  as  a  loving  friend 
and  kinswoman." 

Mastering  her  feelings  with  a  strong  effort,  she  bade  me  good 
night,  and  slowly  walked  back  to  the  Hall. 

I  was  overwhelmed  with  confusion  and  remorse.  I  had  won- 
tonly  sported  with  the  affections  of  one  of  the  gentlest  and 
noblest  of  human  beings,  which  a  single  hint,  dropped  as  if 
accidentally,  of  a  previous  passion  might  have  prevented. 

Between  Catherine  and  me,  no  words  of  love  had  been 
exchanged.  She  might  be  the  love  of  another — might  be  a 
wife,  for  anything  I  knew  to  the  contrary.  I  had  neither  seen 
nor  heard,  anything  regarding  her  for  some  months.  I  had 
sacrificed  the  peace  and  happiness  of  the  generous,  confiding 
Margaretta,  to  an  idol,  which  might  only  eidst  in  my  own  heated 
imagination. 


I 


258 


THE     MONCTONS. 


l^itterly  I  cursed  my  folly  when  repentance  came  too  late. 

I  was  too  much  vexed  and  annoyed  with  myself  to  return  to 
the  Hall,  and  I  rambled  on  until  I  found  myself  opposite  to  the 
fishing-house. 

The  river  lay  before  me  gleaming  in  the  setting  sun.  Every- 
thing around  was  calm,  peaceful  and  beautiful,  but  there  was  no 
rest,  DO  peace  in  my  heart. 

As  I  approached  the  rustic  bridge  from  which  the  wretched 
Alice  bad  attempted  suicide,  I  perceived  a  human  figure  seated 
on  a  stone  on  the  bank  of  the  river,  in  a  crouching,  listless  atti- 
tude. This  excited  my  curiosity,  and  catching  at  anything  that 
might  divert  my  thoughts  from  the  unpleasant  train  in  which 
they  had  been  running  for  the  last  hour,  I  struck  off  the  path  I 
had  been  pursuing,  which  led  directly  to  the  public  road,  and 
soon  reached  the  object  in  question. 

Wrapped  in  an  old  grey  mantle,  with  a  red  silk  handkerchief 
tied  over  her  head,  her  chin  resting  between  her  long  bony 
hands,  and  her  eyes  shut,  or  bent  intently  on  the  ground,  I 
recognized,  with  a  shudder  of  aversion  and  disgust,  the  remarka- 
ble face  of  Dinah  North. 

Her  grizzled  locks  had  partly  escaped  from  their  bandage, 
and  fell  in  thin,  straggling  lines  over  her  low,  wrinkled  forehead. 
The  fire  of  her  deep-seated  dark  eyes  was  hidden  beneath  their 
drooping  lids,  and  she  was  muttering  to  herself  some  strange, 
unintelligible  gibberish. 

She  did  not  notice  me  until  I  purposely  placed  myself  between 
her  and  the  river  that  rolled  silently  and  swiftly  at  her 
feet. 

Without  manifesting  the  least  surprise  at  the  unceremonious 
manner  in  which  I  had  disturbed  her  reverie,  she  slowly  raised 
her  witch-like  countenance,  and  for  a  few  seconds  surveyed  me 
with  a  sullen  stara. 

As  if  satisfied  with  my  identity,  she  accosted  me  with  the 


; 


i\ 


THE     MONCTONS, 


259 


to 
tbe 

sry- 
3  no 

ched 
lated 

atti- 

that 
yhich 
athi 
i,  and 

rchief 
;  bony 
and,  I 
narka- 


same  sarcastic  writhing  of  the  upper  lip,  which  rr*  our  first 
interview  had  given  me  the  key  to  her  character. 

"  You,  too,  are  a  Moncton,  and  like  the  rest  of  that  accursed 
race,  are  fair  and  false.  Your  dark  eyes  all  fire — your  heart  as 
cold  as  ice.  Proud  as  Lucifer — inexorable  as  the  grave — woe  to 
those  who  put  any  trust  in  a  Moncton  ;  they  are  certain  of  dis- 
appointment— sure  to  be  betrayed.  Pass  by,  young  sir,  I  have 
no  doubt  that  you  are  like  the  rest  of  your  kin.  I  wish  them  no 
good,  but  evil,  so  you  had  better  not  cross  my  path." 

"  Your  hatred,  Mrs.  North,  is  more  to  be  coveted  than  your 
friendship.  To  incur  the  first,  augurs  some  good  in  the  person 
thus  honored ;  to  possess  the  last,  would  render  us  worthy  of 
your  curse." 

"  Ha,  ha  1"  returned  the  grim  fiend,  laughing  ironically, 
"  your  knowledge  of  the  world  has  given  you  a  bitter  spirit.  I 
wish  you  joy  of  the  acquisition.  Time  will  increase  its  acri- 
mony. But  I  like  your  bluntness  of  speech,  and  prophesy  from 
it  that  you  are  born  to  overcome  the  malignity  of  your 
enemies." 

"  And  you,"  and  I  fixed  my  eyes  steadily  on  her  hideous 
countenance,  "  for  what  end  were  you  born  ?" 

"  To  be  the  curse  of  others,"  she  answered,  with  a  grim  smile, 
which  displayed  those  glittering  white  teeth  within  her  faded, 
fleshless  lips,  that  looked  like  a  row  of  pearls  in  a  Death's  head  ; 
and  there  flashed  from  her  swart  eye  a  red  light  which  made  the 
blood  curdle  in  my  veins,  as  she  continued  in  the  same  taunting 
strain. 

"  I  have  been  of  use,  too,  in  my  day  and  generation.  I  have 
won  many  soula,  but  not  for  heaven,  I  have  served  my  master 
well,  and  shall  doubtless  receive  my  reward." 

"'  This  is  madness,  Dinah  North,  but  without  excuse.     It  is 
the  madness  of  guilt." 
'  "It  is  a  quality  X  possess  in  common  with  my  kind.    The 


260 


THE     MONCTONS. 


world  is  made  up  of  madmen  and  fools.  It  is  better  to  belong 
to  the  first  than  to  tlio  latter  class — to  rule,  than  to  be  ruled, 
Betvveen  those  two  parties  the  whole  earth  is  divided.  Know- 
ledge is  power,  whether  it  be  the  knowledge  of  evil  or  of  good. 
I  heard  that  sentence  when  a  girl ;  it  never  left  my  mind,  and  I 
have  acted  upon  it  through  life." 

"  It  must  have  been  upon  the  knowledge  of  evil — as  your 
deeds  can  too  well  testify." 

"  You  have  guessed  right,  young  sir.     By  it,  the  devil  lost 
heaven,  but  he  gained  hell     By  it,  tyrants  rule,  and  mean  men 
become  rich  ;  virtue  is  overcome,  and  vice  triumphs." 
"  And  what  have  you  gained  by  it  ?" 

"  Much  ;  it  has  given  me  an  influence  in  the  world,  which 
without  it,  never  could  have  belonged  to  one  of  my  degree.  By 
it,  I  have  swayed  the  destinies  of  those  whom  fortune  had 
apparently  placed  beyond  my  reach.  It  has  given  me,  Geoffrey 
Moncton,  power  over  thee  and  thine,  and  at  this  very  moment, 
the  key  of  your  future  fortune  is  in  my  keeping." 

"  And  your  life  in  mine,  vain  boaster.  The  huur  is  at  hand 
which  shall  make  even  a  hardened  sinner  like  you  acknowledge 
that  there  is  a  righteous  God  that  judges  in  the  earth. 

"  I  ask  you  not  for  the  secret  which  you  say  that  you  possess, 
and  which,  after  all,  may  be  a  falsehood,  in  unison  with  the 
deceit  and  treachery  that  has  marked  your  whole  lift — a  lie, 
invented  to  extort  money,  or  to  gratify  the  spite  of  your  malig- 
nant heart.  The  power  that  punishes  the  guilty  and  watches 
over  the  innocent,  will  vindicate  the  good  name  of  which  a 
wretch  like  von  would  fain  deprive  me." 

"Pon't  i-::  100  sure  of  cdestial  aid,"  she  said  with  a  sneer, 
"  but  make  to  yourself  friends  of  the  mammon  of  unrighteous- 
ness, as  the  wisest  policy.  Flatter  from  your  Uncle  Robert  the 
ill-gotten  jvealth  that  bis  dastardly  son,  Theophilas,  shall  never 
possess." 


THE     M0NCT0N3. 


261 


elong 
puled. 
Lnow- 
good. 
and  I 

3  your 

nl  lost 
an  inea 


,^  wbicli 
68.  By 
ane  had 
Geoffrey 
moment, 

at  band 
lowledge 

possess, 
with  the 
n — a  lie, 

jur  malig- 
watches 
which  a 

a  sneer, 
[righteons- 
Lobert  the 
lall  neyer 


"This  advice  comes  well  from  the  sordid  woman  who  sold 
her  innocent  grandchild  to  this  same  Theophilus,  in  the  hope 
that  she  might  enjoy  the  rank  and  fortune  that  belonged  to  the 
good  and  noble,  and  by  this  unholy  act,  sacrificed  the  peace — 
perhaps  the  eternal  happiness  of  that  most  wretched  creature." 

The  countenance  of  the  old  woman  grew  dark — dark  as  night. 
She  fixed  upon  me  a  wild,  inquiring  gaze. 

"You  speak  of  Alice.  In  the  name  of  God,  tell  me  what 
has  become  of  her  l'-" 

"Upon  one  condition,"  I  said,  laying  my  hand  upon  her 
shoulder  and  whispering  the  words  into  her  ear.  "Tell  me 
what  has  become  of  Philip  Mornington." 

"  Ha  I"  said  the  old  woman,  trying  to  shake  off  my  grasp — 
"  what  do  you  know  of  him  ?" 

"  Enough  to  hang  you — something  that  the  grave  in  the  dark 
shrubbery  can  reveal." 

"  Has  she  told  you  that.  The  fool — the  idiof, ;  in  so  doing 
she  betrayed  herself." 

*'She  told  me  nothing.  The  eye  that  witnessed  the  deed  con- 
fided to  me  that  secret.  The  earth  will  not  conceal  the  stain 
of  blood.  Did  you  never  hear  that  fact  before?  Is  not  my 
secret  as  good  as  yours,  Dinah  North?  Are  you  willing  to 
make  an  exchange  ?" 

The  old  woman  crouched  herself  together,  and  buried  her  face 
between  her  knees.  Her  hands  opened  and  shut  with  a  convul- 
sive motion,  as  if  they  retained  something  in  their  grasp  with 
which  she  was  unwilling  to  part.  At  length,  raising  her  head, 
she  said  in  a  decided  manner  : 

"  The  law  has  lost  in  you  a  worthy  member  ;  bnt  I  accept  the 
teims.     Come  to  me  to-morrow  at  nine  o'clock." 

"  To-night,  or  never  I" 

"  Dou't  try  to  force  or  bully  me  into  compliance,  young  man. 
At  my  own  time,  and  in  my  own  way,  alone,  will  I  gratify  your 
curiosity." 


262 


THE     M0NCT0N8. 


"  Well,  be  it  so — to-morrow.  I  will  meet  you  at  the  Lodge 
at  niiie  to-morrow." 

She  rose  from  her  seat ;  regarded  me  with  the  dame  wither- 
ing glance  and  catting  smile,  and  gliding  past  me,  vanished 
among  the  trees. 

Exulting  in  my  success,  I  exclaimed — "Tha-ak  God  I  shall 
know  all  to-morrow  1" 


I 


I  i 


THE     IfONCTONB 


263 


ag« 


her- 
shed 


sball 


CHAPTER    XXY. 

AN    EXPLANATION — DEPARTURE — DISAPPOINTMENT. 

I  WAS  SO  elated  with  the  unexpected  result  of  my  meeting  with 
Dinrh  I\  orth,  that  it  was  not  until  I  missed  the  fairy  figure  of 
my  sweet  cousin  at  the  supper  table,  that  my  mind  reverted  to 
■'>e  conversation  Ui&t  had  passed  between  us  in  the  park. 

"  Where  is  Miss  Moncton  ?"  I  asked  of  Sir  Alexander,  in  a 
tone  and  manner  which  would  have  betrayed  the  agitation  I  felt, 
to  a  stranger. 

"  She  is  not  well,  Geoffrey,  has  a  bad  headache,  or  is  rervous, 
I  forget  which,  and  begged  to  be  excused  joining  us  to-night. 
These  little  female  complaints  are  never  dangerous,  so  don't 
look  alarmed.  My  girl  is  no  philosopher,  and  this  double  part- 
ing affects  her  spirits.  She  will  be  all  right  again  when  you 
come  back." 

I  sighed  involuntarily.  The  provoking  old  man  burst  into  a 
hearty  laugh. 

"  I  am  likely  to  have  a  dull  companion  to-night,  Geoff.  Hang 
it,  boy,  don't  look  so  dismal.  Do  you  think  that  you  are  the 
only  man  that  ever  was  in  love  ?  I  was  a  youTig  man  once. 
Ay,  and  a  fine  young  man  too,  or  the  world  and  the  ladies  told 
great  stories,  but  I  never  could  enact  the  part  of  a  sentimental 
lover.  Fill  your  glass  and  drive  away  care.  Success  to  your 
journey.  Our, journey?,  J  ...'dit  hs^vo  said — and  a  happy  meet- 
ing with  little  Madge." 

I  longed  to  tell  Sir  Alexander  the  truth,  and  *epeat  to  him 
my  conversation  with  his  daughter.    But  I  could  not  bear  to 


•iMH 


s      i 


,HB    UONCTONS. 

264  ^'^p,  that  he  con- 

.,,  {or  I  could  »ot  tail  to  perce'V«  t  ^^.^ 

mortify  his  P"^^-  f°' '    ,„  „s  ,.ith  pleasure,  a»dj-  ^^^_^^ 

♦...plated  a  "-"""^'^^  „,ke  a  deotoauon  of  my  a 
best  to  encoarage.me  to  „.  and  in  order 

*"  ""'"weed  i»  a  most  unfortunate  P^^^^^^ '„  ,i„e  than 
^  ""'"rovTu  miserable  feelings,     drank  ^^  g^^. 

•to  drown  my  »«»  .j^i^i  flow  of  spmts,  ^otes, 

usual,  and  E-"'»f  ;^„"ber  of  facetious  stor'^'J*  \„ 
erous  patron  w.th  »  """      „,ed.  and  we  both  .eUred  ^^ 

until  the  night  -^^f^;^ Seated  with  the  wme  I  had  d      ^.^^ 
M,  brain  was  too  much  .^^^^^^^^,  efforts,  I 'o         ^^ 

for  herself,  the  g  ^.^ou,  the  ide  .^  ^^^ 

'''  ^nlCvride  n^e  the  ^^P^f  ^  ^as  X  ^elt  it  was 

^^  TtThe  heart  I  had  to  «^^^^^^^^^^^^^^ 
would  accept  tbe        ^^^.^. ^^^y  eould  be  esta 

with  another,  a  ^^^^^  verbatim  my 

"^^rltb^i  candid  -^rirrpUe.  that  I 

lendedths  10  b  ^^^  ^l^C  leaving  the  Hall, 

interview  with  D.na  ^.^^  ^^^^  '^f '' !!!t  mind.    1  had 

^S,U  e-^-'Xt^rJd  by  thus  nnbnrdenmg  my  m  _  ^^^ 

^  ^^''  f  It  [ruth,  without  fear,  '"'^/''^^^ouW  value  my 
told  the  honest  trutn  ^^^  ^.^^^,  „f  t„tb,  w 

I  knew  that  she,  who  w 
.        t,  as  it  deserved.  T  disnatched  my 'Ctter,  » 

%rsu    «s  scarcely  nP'^»  J  ^'^^„  „,acred  previous  to 
X  :he  eerlybrea«ast,t^^2:^,,,,o„owinga 

J    orVnTe  was  ready,  a  ^'^ 
onr  departure,  «« 


r.% 


TUE     MONCTONS 


265 


)tv- 

rdet 
tbau 
gen- 
iotea, 
est. 

le  from 
iov^tt  to 
wbicli  X 
he  int®^* 

Bts  it  ^vas, 
Lbat  1  felt 
t  out  for 

sU  loved 
bat  if  8^« 

felt  it  v?a3 

I,  my  v»^^^^ 

[erbatim  my 

l\ble,  tbat  1 

tbe  Hall- 

piiud.  1^^^, 
l-sguise  •,  »^^ 
Ld  value  my 


\etteT, 


and 


,a  previoiia  to 
answer^ 


"  My  Dear  Cousin  Geoffrey  : 

Your  invaluable  letter  has  greatly  raised  you  in  my  esteem  ; 
I  cannot  suflQcicntly  admire  the  conscientious  scruplea  which  dictated  it — 
and  though  wc  cannot  meet  as  lovers,  after  the  candid  revelation  you 
have  conflded  to  me,  we  may  still  remain,  what  all  near  relatives  ought 
to  be,  firm  and  faithful  friends. 

"  To  you  I  can  attach  no  blame  whatever,  and  I  feel  proud  that  my 
afl'ections,  though  fixed  upon  an  object  beyond  their  reach,  were  bestowed 
upon  one  so  every  way  worthy  of  them. 

"  Let  us  therefore  forget  our  private  sorrows,  and  drown  unavailing 
regrets  in  doing  all  we  can  to  serve  Philip  and  his  sister.  Farewell — 
with  sincere  prayers  for  the  successful  issue  of  your  journey,  believe  me, 
now  and  ever,  your  faithful  and  loving  friend, 

MA.ROARETTA." 

"What  a  noble  creature  she  is,"  I  said,  as  I  pressed  the 
letter  to  my  lips ;  "  I  am  indeed  unworthy  of  such  a  treasure." 

Yet  I  felt  happy  at  that  moment — happy,  that  she  knew 
all — that  I  had  not  deceived  her,  but  hf.d  performed  an  act  of 
painful  duty,  though  by  so  doing  I  had  perhaps  destroyed  the 
brillian'^y  of  my  future  prospects  in  life. 

With  mingled  feelings  of  gratitude  and  pleasure  I  met 
my  dear  cousin  at  the  breakfast  table.  Her  countenance, 
although  paler  than  usual,  wore  a  tranquil,  and  even  cheerful 
expression. 

"  Why,  Madge,  my  darling,"  cried  the  baronet,  kissing  her 
pale  cheek,  "  you  are  determined  to  see  the  last  of  ua — is  your 
early  rising  in  honor  of  Geoffrey  or  me  ?" 

"  Of  both,"  she  said,  with  her  sweetest  smile.  "  I  never 
employ  a  proxy  to  bid  farewell  to  my  friends." 

Several  efforts  were  made  at  conversation  during  the  meal, 
which  proved  eminently  unsuccessful.  The  hour  of  parting  came. 
The  baronet '  was  spfely  stowed  away  into  his  carriage  ;  the 
noble  horses  plunged  forward,  and  the  glittering  equipage  was 
soon  lost  among  the  trees.       lingered  a  moment  behind. 

13 


^i -— 


ii^fe? 


266 


THE 


jlONOTONS. 


.,  Dear  Marga«t,«c  part  friend,.' 

.■The  best  of  friends."  „f  „omen,"  I  «»*. 

fa-mtly,  for  -y  '  f  thave  removed  a  lo»«  .^      '  J  ^  ^^,„er 
cnlateaword;    /""„„,  frtodsl.ip  w-'''^  7 " 
heart.    To  haw  lost  yo  ^^  f^,^^„„,.» 

„ial  to  me,  than  the  ^ jt         ^^^^^  ^^^^.^  ''^''"^itand 
..  I  beUeve  you,  Geoffrey.  "Wo  <»»";        ^^ 

^Uhes.   Adieu,  dear  cousu..  ^^^ 

your  sueees^"  ^^  ,„  ^i„e.    The  next  mome 

'  She  raised  her  tearfvl  -ye  ^^  '»"*''    "'holy 

Z  in  »y  arms,  P-f^.;S  embrace-a  heavy  melaneho  y 

so^:eS----^:r^^^^^ 

forgot  *;P-»rt'    P  vivid-V  to  my  --— d'the  cot- 
imity  to  the  lodg.  brou„  ^^;,,„g  ti,at  tro 

/astcnh,g  m,  horse  W'u-     ^^^  ^^^„  garden,  «^-^^';' 
*.^P    I  crossed  the  pretty  ganuaoi.i,  thou„n  g 

Xr  impatlenUy  at  the  J^^^^^^^  ^^d  unanswered;^ 

^  rai:a«^  ^^^^^^^^^  -"^  ^t  l;  te™:-     Bhe  must 
utSroreU-^^^^^^^^ 

"^  rt  "a:d  Uf  in    tie  latch.  I  v-y ---:„„  ie  hearth 
no  longer,   ana         o  ^.^^^^  ^.^^,„.    Xhej  ^^  ^j^^  j„„,. 

the  cottage.    All  "<'  ,^  ^^re  sea'-     •"  windows 

vrereundraWD.    It^e  ^ou 


TUIS     MUNOTONS. 


207 


tho  bod  made  and  the  room  uutenantcd.     a  was  evident  iliut 


the  old 


3ft\d, 
aru- 
a  ray 
iverer 

g  pftla- 
crstand 

oreseut 


ayers 


for 


3ie\anc\io\y 


hat  1  nearly 
U\  my  ?^«^' 
ance. 
uted  tV^e  cot. 

and  V^«o^^^^ 
.boug^  S^^^^ 
Ircd. 

She  »»'*■ 

U  Bt-J  ^''1 
'uoosly  entered 
en  *e  V>e«* 
over  *"  ft""'- 

Loom**'"*'"' 


woman  wu 
"  Dinah.  Dinah  North  I 


ot  there.    I  called  aloud 


Is  any  one  within  ?" 

No  answer. 

I  proceeded  to  explore  the  rest  of  the  dwelling.  In  tlm  front 
room  or  parlor,  the  contents  of  a  small  chest  of  drawers  had  been 
emptied  out  on  the  floor,  and  some  few  articles  of  little  value  were 
Btrewn  about.  In  was  an  evident  fact,  that  the  bird  was  flown; 
and  all  my  high-raised  expectations  resolved  themselves  into  air. 

Whilst  cursing  the  cnifiy  old  woman  bitterly  in  my  heart,  my 
eye  glanced  upon  a  slip  of  paper  lying  upon  a  p'de  table.  I 
hastily  snatched  it  up  and  read  the  following  words  traced  in  a 
bold  hand  : 

"  Geoffrey  Moncton,  when  next  we  meet,  your  secret  and  mine  will  be 

of  equal  value. 

"  Dinah  North." 

I  was  bitteiiy  disappointed,  and  crushing  the  paper  in  my 
hand,  I  flung  it  as  far  from  me  as  I  could. 

"  Curse  tlie  old  fiend.  We  shall  yet  meet.  I  will  trace  her 
to  the  utmo     bounds  ol'  earth  to  bring  her  to  justice." 

I  left  the  house  in  a  terrible  ill  humor,  and  re-mounting  my 
horse,  pursued  my  journey  to  Derbyshire. 

It  was  late  on  the  evening  of  the  second  day,  wlien  I  reached 
the  little  village,  over  which  my  grandfather  Rivers  had  exer- 
cised the  pastoral  office  for  nearly  fifty  years.  The  good  man 
had  been  gathered  to  his  fathers  a  few  months  before  I  was 
born.  It  was  not  without  feeling  a  considerable  degree  of  inter- 
est that  I  rode  past  the  humble  church,  surrounded  by  its  lofty 
screen  of  elms,  and  glanced  at  the  green  sward,  beneath  whose 
daisy-sprinkled  carpet,  the 

Rude  forefathers  of  the  village  slept." 

The  rain  had  fallen  softly  but  perseveringly  the  whole  day, 


268 

and  I  was 

its 


TUB    MO 


jj  C  T  0  N  B 


,„d  the  neat  little  inn 


Wl 


th 


wet.  ^^--^Z\''tTLl  and  grccu  wuulow- 


1)11  nds, 


was  bailed  as  ti»o       >  ^      ^.f,_ 

1   to  hold  Biy  norst/. 

thorems  and  entered  the  bntii  i 
rt;n,.te..ti,eUonsor^^ 

.•;No  master,  Sir,  -cTf^re  she  come." 

..,,e  »a.er  i.e  a  .iss.  -    Hac  ^^^^  ^^^^^^  ^  , 

-What's  your  pleasuit .  iuner-room.     bhe  wa 

tUirty  yea.  ot  a,e,  a  vancu^  Uo^  ^_^^  ^^^^  ,,,  ,      .,na  - 

dressed  »>«W""^Tt'rd  a  vosy,  cnrly-Leaded  urelun,  ^^^ 
i„„ly,  ana  W  by  the  hand  a    osy         ,    ^^^^_^  eontemptible^ 

,,e  .oti>e.  ;f  J:::/      ;rconte.nplatiug  the  ong.nals.  ti.at 
Picture;  and  1  lO^go^'  ;,  +i    t 

bov  she  remarked,  with  a  si-u  .  ^„ 

''^:He'syoungtobeanorphan--p  0^  ^.^^^^  ,,,,,w.  as  I 

7t     •     indeed "  X  rephed,  kissm^  ^^p^^am 

■  J,f  'Ut  .otUe.  .a.  too  young  and  pretty 

lo„.  a'widow •'  ^ „      -^  M,s,  Arclier,  smiling  wA 

'"'°La,  siv  •,  you  don't  say  s        a>d  i    ^^^^^.^^  ^^^  ^„,,  ^^ 
Wnshing  most  »e-.n.ngly  _     And  ^^^  ^^^^^^^     You  cau  have 

i,  the  dvafty,  coW  passage  myo 

a  private  room  and  a  6re,  sir. 


THE     UONCTONS. 


209 


th 

ich 

vely 
ratt 
mat! 

^bero 


«i 


ng 


me. 


^  about 
ce  amaz- 

emptvWe. 
cbaraVvng 
tls,  tbat  I 

jived  tbat 
lest.     A^^ 


ellow,  as  i 
to  reniaitt 


jniiVing 
v\l  ttiis 


and 
wbUe 


ou 


cau  bftve 


And  a  good  supper,  I  hope,"  said  I  laugh inc^.     "  I  Imvo 
ridden  fifty  miles  to-day,  and  I  feel  desperately  liuii;2:ry." 

"  You  shall  have  the  best  the  house  afl'ords.  I'ray,  walk 
this  way." 

I  followed  my  conductress  into  a  neat  little  room.  A  fat 
country  girl  was  on  her  knees  before  the  grate  striving  to  kindle 
the  fire  ;  but  the  wood  was  wet,  and  in  spite  of  the  girl's  exer- 
tions, who  was  supplying  with  her  mouth  the  want  of  a  pair  of 
bellows,  the  fire  refused  to  burn. 

"  It's  of  no  manner  of  use — no  it  isn't,"  said  the  girl.  "  I 
may  blow  till  I  bust,  an'  it  won't  kindle." 

*'  Try  again,  Betty,"  said  her  mistress,  encouragingly.  "  You 
were  always  a  first-rate  hand  at  raising  the  fire." 

"  But  the  wood  warn't  wet,"  returned  the  fat  girl,  discon- 
tentedly.    "  I  can't  make  it  burn  when  it  won't." 

And  getting  up  from  her  fat  knees  sbe  retreated,  scowling 
alternately  at  me  and  the  refractory  fire. 

The  room  looked  cold  a,nd  comfortless.  The  heavy  rain 
dashed  drearily  ogainst  the  narrow  window  panes  ;  and  I 
inquired  if  I  could  not  dry  my  wet  clothes  and  eat  my  supper 
by  the  kitchen  fire.' 

•*  Oh,  yes.  If  such  a  gentleman  as  you  will  condescend  to 
enter  my  humble  kitchen,"  was  the  reply. 

I  did  condescend — heaven  only  knows  how  gladly — and  soon 
found  myself  comfortably  seated  before  an  excellent  fire,  in 
company  with  a  stout,  red-faced,  jolly  old  farmer,  and  a  thin, 
weazel-faced,  undersized  individual,  dressed  in  a  threadbare 
suit  of  pepper  and  salt,  who  kept  his  hat  on,  and  wore  it  on  one 
side  with  a  knowing  swagger,  talked  big,  and  gave  himself  a 
thousand  consequential  airs. 

This  person  I  discovered  to  be  the  barber  and  great  poli- 
tician of  the  village.  Who  talked  continually  of  King  George 
and  the  royal  family  ;   of  the  king's  ministers  ;   the  war  in 


210  ,  ,^„  destructtott  of  tW 

•„„  oE  Mosi-ow,  and  the  a 
BoosWa,  fte  Wmng  0  v»a  upon  Wm  of  the 

monster  Bonyparty.  ^^^,_  ,„d  looked  J^^^  ^^  ^  ^^, 

The  favmer,  «.-  ^-'  «  ,  „,,ele,  '-'"^^"'^.^g  twopence 
,trop  and  razor  as  ap«  ^i^,  barber  pay 

cf  '^l''.  f-  *:  "1  of  a  second-hand  newspaper^        ^^^^_  ^„, 

.SU  -etH«^r;s::;d  n.e  fn«  Jn;^«  ^^'s  n^oney 

„„a.  and  -*»^;  J  "^;age,  Mrs.  A;*-    «-  ^^,  ^emmeo, 

,.  Kot  an  >neh  ^ '"/  „o„ey.    H"  "f""'  ^^„  ,eal  inde- 

i,  as  good  a.  another  .na^^^^^    That's  what  X  ca 

'  ^  "^"'^  '  Xr  BuUoek."  ,  ,  „^„„  ^^e  fat  tnee  of  the 

so»e  other  way,"  s-*  «        ^„,  ,,  ^ean  as  a  crow  s  ^^^ 

„,an,  yo-«  fingers  ^^<'_^f   ^^  and  sting  hto  wh>P         _^.^  ^^^ 
-^  ^"'"^  ",7:rat  ;o.\ad  dabUed  long  cnou,^    ^^^  ^^  ^ 
^onld  think  that  yo  J^^  ^^^^^^^  ,^  „ake  *«» 
pomatum,  and  sncn  -  own  head.  ^^  „„„. 

layer,  wl^ilst  ^  sp  operator."  Quizzical  grin, 

Jo  tlie  pocket  of  the  poo     V  ^.^^  ,  ^,oad  qu  ^^ 

..  Operator,"  repeated  the  ^  ^^^^^,  ^    it  s  a  v  : 

.'  Pon't  speat  disresp 


THE     MONCTONS. 


271 


e 
id 

ley 
len, 
ide- 

:t\ie 

it  in 

s,  and 
One 
il   and 
,e  as  a 

•d  num- 
with  its 
a  brick- 
a  penny 

;ical  grin, 
.  pity  yon 

\)y  wbicH 

lies  in  the 
U  tbe  little 


%' 


barber,  waxing  wroth.  "My  sign  is  an  excellent  sign — the 
admiration  of  the  whole  village  ;  and  let  me  tell  you  that  it  is 
not  in  spite  and  envy  to  put  it  down — let  spite  and  envy  try  as 
hard  as  they  can.  The  genius  that  suggested  that  sign  is  not 
destined  to  go  unrewarded." 

"  Ha,  ha,  ha  I"  roared  the  chewer  of  bacon. 

"Mrs.  Archer,"  said  the  offended  shaver,  turning  to  the 
pretty  widow  with  an  air  of  wounded  dignity  truly  comic,  "  did 
you  ever  before  hear  a  Bullock  laugh  like  a  hog  ?" 

"  Dang  it,  man,  such  conceit  would  make  a  cow  caper  a  horn- 
pipe, or  a  Shelled  Drake  crow  like  a  cock." 

"  I  beg  you,  Mister  Bullock,  to  take  no  liberties  with  my 
name — especially  in  the  presence  of  the  fair  sex,"  bowing  grace- 
fully to  Mrs.  Archer,  who  was  leaning  upon  the  back  of  ray 
chair,  half  suffocated  with  suppressed  laughter. 

"  What  are  you  quarrelling  about.  Sheldrake  ?"  said  the  good- 
natured  widow.  "  Bullock,  can't  you  let  his  sign  alone  ?  It  is 
something  new,  I  hear — something  in  praise  of  the  ladies." 

"  I  was  always  devoted  to  the  ladies,"  said  the  barber,  "  hav- 
ing expended  the  best  years  of  my  life  in  their  service." 

"  Well,  well,  if  so  be  that  you  call  that  powetry  over  your 
door  a  compliment  to  the  women  folk,  I'll  be  shot !"  said  the 
farmer.  "  Now,  sir,"  turning  to  me,  "you  are  a  stranger,  and 
therefore  unprejudiced  ;  you  shrill  be  judge.  Come,  barber, 
repeat  your  verses,  and  hear  what  the  gemmen  says  of 
them." 

"  With  all  my  heart ;"  and  flinging  his  shoulders  back  and 
stretching  forth  his  right  arm,  the  barber  repeated  in  a  loud 
theatrical  tone. 

"  I,  William  Sheldrake,  shave  for  a  penny, 
Ladies  and  gentlemen— there  can't  come  too  many — 
With  heads  and  beards — I  meant  to  say 
Those  who've  got  none  may  keep  away." 


THE    MONCTONS. 

'^^"^  nil  ffreatly  disconcerted 

A  .earty  burst  of  ^-g^'^  J^"  ."I.^     lei  pi., 
the  barber,  who  looted  as  "^f""^  /'^.eher,  "  «bat  do  you 
..You  bairy  ^««-*"'.''"f\*  deserve  to  be  ducked  to 
^  .a„  by  shaving  the  lad.es?    To"  „  ^^^  ^^  ed, 

death  in  a  tub  of  dirty  suds     Beajd         ^^^^^  ^,, 

tith  evident  <-P^-tn';ira  beard?    Did  you  take  »sal 
..  ,ho  ever  saw  a joman  -«>^^-^^  ^^^^  ^^^  ^^^,,^  y„„„g  lady 

"^fCis  no  secret  to  -  Mrs^„t  U^  -of  taste,  and  knows 
,,e  thinks  of  it.  Miss  L-  .  a  -^^  .^  l^,  ,,,„  some  folks. 
T,ow  to  appreciate  good  poetiy,  w 

Ja  hunlred  miles  off,  does-  ^^^^^^,„k,  and  I  saw 

'•^^try^SrnSg-^bip,  and  heard  her  say  to 
reCirhlplatisalierswithher, 

.. .  Is  not  that  catital^  „ot  draw  custom  to 

..  ^„d  he  says,  'C^;^  <    'i:^.,.,,.o.  Bullock,  you  mey 

+he  shon,  nothing  wiU.      ^^  .      „ 

tue  SHU  J,        ^nppriD"-  at  my  sign."  ,  „     ^^  33ul- 

j„,,..  hut  there's  no— ^^^^^^^  ,  ,he  Elms  Just 

..  Who  is  the  gentleman  ti  ^^^^  ^.^  ^^„,  ^ 

„ow?"  asked  Mrs.  Arche.       T>  J  ^^^^^^  ^  ^^^^  f„,get.     U 

..  i-te  heard,"  said  Suds,        _ 
eUher  begins  with  »  M  or  auj^,,  ,,,  s.elarake.    Tou  : 


rht 


(( 


as  w 


xaavo  »  wide  landmark 
■ell  have  added  a  P  or  a  Q^ 


That's 


tt 


Stop 


"  said  the 


barber,  "I  can  give  you 


clue  to  it.    I>o 


von  re 


of  the 


c      .«r,vtinir  gemman 
fine  well-grilled 


^  ff  with  Parson  tlivers  a 

+l\it  ran  on  witn  x  »^^  r^,     ^ 


itarted   from 


n 


THE     jrONCTONS 


213 


ted 

yon 
L  to 
ited, 
;bm  ; 
IS  all 
lady 

what 
knows 
)  folks, 

\  I  saw 

c  say  to 


astom  to 
you  may 

said  Bul- 

Elms  just 

)rget.     It 

to  it.    ^o 
ng  gemman 
a  boy  then, 

,  well-g^'^^^^*^ 


beef-steak   that    Mrs.   Archer  was    dishing  for    my  especial 
benefit. 

"  Well,"  said  Sheldrake,  "  he  is  either  a  son  or  a  nefy  of  his, 
and  has  the  same  name." 

"  The  deuce  he  is  I  That  was  Moncton  if  I  mistake  not. 
"  Yes,  yes,  Moncton  was  the  name.  I  well  remember  it,  for  it 
was  the  means  of  our  losing  our  good  old  pastor  " 

"  How  was  that  ?"  said  I,  trying  to  look  indiflferent. 

"  Why,  sir,  do  you  see.  Mr.  Rivers  had  been  many  years  in 
the  parish.  He  married  my  father  and  mother,  and  baptized 
me,  when  a  babby.  He  did  more  than  that.  He  married  mc  to 
my  old  woman,  when  I  was  a  man — but  thai  was  the  worst  job 
he  ever  done. 

"  Well,  sir,  as  I  was  telling  you.  He  was  a  good  man  and  a 
a  Christaiu.  But  he  had  one  little  weakness.  We  have  all  our 
faults  sir.  He  loved  his  pretty  daughter  too  well — wise  men 
will  sometimes  play  the  fool,  and  'tis  a  bad  thing  to  make  too 
much  of  woman-kind.  Like  servants  they  grow  saucy  upon  it. 
They  always  gets  Ihe  advantage,  any  how,  and  our  old  parson 
did  pet  and  spoil  Miss  Ellen,  to  her  heart's  content. 

"  There  was  some  excuse  too  for  him,  for  he  was  an  old  man 
and  a  widower.  He  had  lost  his  wife  and  a  large  faDaily.  Par- 
sons always  have  largo  families.  My  wife  do  say,  that  'tis  because 
they  have  nothing  else  to  do.  But  I'se  very  sure,  that  I  should 
find  preaching  aad  sermon  work  hard  enough." 

"  Lord,  man,  what  a  roundabout  way  you  have  of  telling  a 
story,"  cried  Suds,  who  was  impatient  to  hear  his  own  voice  again. 
"  Get  on  a  little  quicker.  Don't  you  see,  the  gemmon's  steak's 
a-getting  cold— and  he  can't  eat  and  listen  to  you  at  the  same 
time,  an  art  I  learnt  long  ago." 

"  Mind  your  own  business,  Sheldrake,"  said  the  farmer,  "  I 
never  trouble  my  head  with  the  nonsense  that  is  always  frothing 
out  of  your  mouth." 

12* 


214 


TBI     MONOTONS. 


i„  to  me  "  as  I  '"^  ^"^"'8  '•  ''"  ^''^ 
...Well,  sir,"  turning  agam  *»  »^;  ^^eh  made  him  so 

.„d  family  haaalUiediu  the  — *-^:^,  ,„  nothing,  and   . 
afraid  of  losing  Miss  EUcn,  faOe        ^^^^^^„^yp  as  ever 
t„,yshe  was  as  V^-^^y -^^J^  and  gentle,  which  beaaties 
you  saw-and  very  ^«f"!"P  ™^  ^^  ^^rry  a  pretty  woman 
Lldom  are.    I  had  the  "'-~;;^,  ^./trouble  you  with 
and  I  knows  it  to  my  cost^    «  ^.^^  ^^,  ^,,elf. 

„y  missus.     It's  bad  eu^gh  'o  be  tr  ^^^^  ^  ^.^^^^^ 

\.  s,,  sir-as  I  was    *»S  Jo"-    "J  ^j,  Q.ove,  with 

gentleman  down  fron  ^f^^L  "sS*  -*  ^one." 
L  old  landlord  Sqmra  Lee  who  s  dca        j 
I  Tins  Squire  Lee,  was  the  son  «'  *'  "f  ^^^  ,„,  a  farthir-g 
..Idare^ay,  Bullock  the  gemm^doe^^^^^^     ,,^^_^  ^^^ 
,hose  son  he  was."  cned  the  .mpat.en      ^^_^_^  ^^^  ^.^ 
,„„,  of  genealog.s  tha     ts,.^^^^^^^  ^^^  ^^^  „,  ,,,,.  .,.eh 
last  squire,  and  ena  wit  ,^^ 

was  the  son  of  Adam,  &c.  ^^  j  „as  on  the  ten- 

These  i"tenup«o-  w-  -^^^Z  A^sh,  the  head  and  tad 

:r!;s,t::-hd«^^^^^^^^^ 

jrorh::;in:rire;.gmored.cnrsive."I 

feel  quite  interested."  ^  ^^e  Grove,  during 

..'well,  sir,  this  young  -»  ^^ '"^^EUen  at  church,  and 

the  shooting  season  ;  and  ne  «  ^^  ^^^  ^^^^  ^^^^^^j    j 

falls  desperately  in  '"'^T,'*^ J';';^  ,  ,^art  active  chap,  although 
was  a  youngster  «»f '^^  ""^^  j  ..member  feeling  rather  queer- 
I  be  clumsy  enough  nov/.  and  I  rem  ^^^^^,^  „ 

i.h,  whenever  I  cast  a  sheep's  eye  "j^ J  ,_^      j         j.ed  that 
;.B„t  *e  younglaayjd         t^^^^^^^    airection-'Miow 
be  was  troitmg  off  at  tun  ga^^  f 
'''..OK  aH"  you«g  people  generaly  do  in  such  cases.    From 


THE     H0NCT0N3. 


275 


From 


\ 


exchanging  looks,  they  came  to  exchanging  letters,  and  then 
words.  Stolen  meetings,  and  presents  of  hearts  cut  out  of 
turnips,  with  a  skewer  put  through  them,  to  show  the  despera- 
tion of  the  case.  That  was  the  way  at  least,  that  I  went  .a 
courting  my  Martha,  and  it  took  amazingly." 

**  Hang  you,  and  your  Martha  !"  thought  I,  as  I  turned  help- 
lessly to  the  beef-steak,  but  I  felt  too  much  excited  to  do  it  the 
least  justice. 

After  deliberately  knocking  the  ashes  from  his  pipe,  and  tak- 
ing a  long  draught  of  ale  from  the  pewter  pot  beside  him,  the 
old  farmer  went  on  of  his  own  accord. 

"  I  s'pose  the  young  man  told  Miss  Ellen  that  he  could  not 
live  withe  -^r.  We  all  tell  'em  ko,  but  we  never  dies  a  bit 
the  soonei,  .u.  all  that — and  the  pretty  Miss  told  him  to  speak 
to  her  fa  er  and  he  did  speak,  and  to  his  surprise,  old  parson 
did  not  like  it  ^l  all,  and  did  not  give  him  a  very  civil  answer  ; 
and  turned  the  young  chap  out  of  the  house.  He  said,  that 
he  did  not  approve  of  sporting  characters  for  sons-in-law,  and 
Miss  Ellen  should  never  get  his  consent  to  marry  him.  But  as 
I  told  j^ou  before,  sir.  The  women-folk  will  have  their  own 
way,  especially  when  there  is  a  sweet-heart  or  a  new  bonnet  in 
the  case,  and  the  young  lady  gave  him  her  own  consent,  and 
they  took  French  le  ive  and  went  off  without  saying  a  word  to 
nobody, 

"Next  morning  old  parson  was  running  about  the  village,  ask- 
ing everybody  if  they  had  seen  his  child,  the  tears  running  over 
his  thin  face,  and  he  raving  like  a  man  out  of  his  head." 

"  And  were  the  young  people  ever  married  ?"  and  in  spite  of 
myself  I  felt  the  cclor  flush  my  face  to  crimson. 

"  I  never  heard  to  the  contrary.  But  it  was  not  right  of  her 
to  vex  the  poor  old  man  •  he  took  it  so  to  heart,  that  it  quite 
broke  his  spirit,  and  he  lived  but  a  very  few  months  after  she 
left  him.'' 


■-hS«^' 


^ 


Vt!   : 


■  ,    1 


216 


THE     MON0TON3. 


,       *„  ,he  neighborhood.  We  never 
..  His  death  was  a  gr^**  If  =  *°  ' '   '   him  since.    He  was  » 
tadlparson  that  couid  hoid  a  -"^  ald^ties  to  see  the  good 
Ser  to  the  poor,  and  it  --  ^^°7,*  Jay.  and  fretting  him- 
oid  man  pining  and  drooping  ^^  ^*[.^  ,^  ,,,  old  age." 
self  after  the  spoilt  gaU  who  forsook  h  ^^.^  ^^^^_., 

.  YOU  are  too  ^^^-^  ^^^^l^'J^^^  blame  in  her  to  prefer 
was  bnt  human  natnr  a  er  a«  and  ^_^^^^  ,„perannuated 

a  handsome  young   husband  to 

parson."  «.> 

..  Did  she  ever  return  to  ■  ^^    ^^^  too  late 

..  She  came  to  .co  iv.r  ta^er  m    .  ^.^^^  ^^^^  ^^        ,,, 

to  receive  hi.  i-^'^^'l^Xoi  Ellen  is  come,  I  shall  see 
Btairs.  His  5*  •  "»'•««-  ^''f!  „  "  ^^  he  expired  directly  the 
L  before  1  die.-         '  ^^^  **  »"'>;„,  her  husband  followed 

.ordswere  »;*  of^--^^  ^^^,„„  ,,  ,Hef.  I  never  saw  a 

the  old  man  to  his  grave,  u 

handsomer  couple."  ,  ,,:tatin-ly,  the  church  in  which  they 

..  Do  you  know,"  I  said  hesitatm,  y, 

were  married?"  ^^^.,,,,  to  ask,  as  it  did  not 

i.  I  never  heard  sir,  not  teeiin,  ^^^^^^  ^^^  ^^s 

(( Thank  you,"  1  repueu,  «^         .    ,     ,, 
table,  "you  have  satisfied  my  cuvjos.t-  ^.^^^_^^,^_ 

Though  outwardly  calm   ^y  :^'^^^,^^  .Hnity  of  Cather- 

^"1;^^:::;":^ --;:;:;.  mig.  be  acuamtedwith 

;i  facts  so  import.»t  tor  >».«'»  P^;Xersation  had  produced 
The  hopes  and  fears  ^^^-ch  this  conv  ^^^  ._^  ^^^  ^^^^ 

V  1  ti,^  effect  of  .kstroying  my  appetite.  ,,..^^  i„  the 

had  the^eoi  m  j  number  of  delicacies 

SS::er:::^r:Ud.iclous  fresh  butter,  and 


'■"HF 


THE     MONCTONS. 


an 


it 
er 
ed 


ate 
the 

see 

the 
»wed 
iw  a 

they 

d  not 
was 
school 


humming  ale,  the  power  of  mental  excitement  overpowered  the 
mere  gratification  of  the  senses. 

"  Before  I  retired  for  the  night,  I  had  tlip  mortification  of 
seeing  my  loquacious  companions  doing  ample  justice  to  the 
savory  supper,  from  which  I  had  risen  with  indifference. 

I  sought  the  solitude  of  my  chamber,  undressed,  and  flung 
myself  into  bed.  To  sleep  was  out  of  the  question.  Catherine 
Lee,  Margaretta  Monctou  and  my  dear  mother  floated  in  a  con- 
tinual whirl  through  my  heated  brain.  My  mind  was  a  perfect 
chaos  of  confused  images  and  thoughts  ;  nor  could  I  reflect 
calmly  on  one  subject  for  two  minutes  together. 

My  head  ached,  my  heart  beat  tumultuously,  and  in  order 
to  allay  this  feverish  mental  irritation,  I  took  a  large  dose  of 
laudanum,  which  produced  the  desired  effect  of  lulling  me  into 
profound  forge tfulness. 

The  day  was  far  advanced  when  I  shook  off  this  heavy  unwhole- 
some slumber,  but  on  endeavoring  to  rise,  I  felt  so  stupid  and 
giddy,  that  I  was  fain  to  take  a  cup  of  coffee  in  bed.  A  table- 
spoonful  of  lime-juice  administered  by  the  white  hand  of  Mrs. 
Archer,  counteracted  the  unpleasant  effects  of  the  opiate. 


i'. 


om  the 


'% 


ntly.— 
Gather- 
ed with 

rodaced 
alQ  +hat 
es  in  the 
,ter,  attd 


i   '3 


il 


1', 


i^Wi' 


THE    UON0T0N8 


:» 


i 


CHAPTER   XXVI. 

ELM      GROVE. 

tr-       nf  the  past  nigbt,  I 
OK  calm,,  reviewing  ^Xt"  ^  oouOae  my  situation 
determined  to  walk  over  to  B'-  G^°'  '        „„,he.-s,  migM  feel 
to  Mrs.  Hepbarn,  -^^"'^^^^^^  done' in  Mr.  Robert  Monc- 
„ore  interested  m  me  tl>an  sbe 

ton's  poor  dependent  clerk.  ^  ^mediately  put 

I  was  so  well  pleased  «*  tin    pl  ^^  ^,^^^  „y     ,„,„- 

it  i„to  execution,  and  S;'"  "   ^the  appearance  of  the  lady  m 

tton,  unti,  1  found  myseU  ^^J^,^  the  most  beauUtu 

::r:ft:rdr;-»o-— -^— ' 

^tt  H:b::n  was  past  -  —no. -^^^^^^^^ 
--"-rrrerrrCe'aLce  Wuue  and  pre- 
and  agreeable,  and  ner 

possessing.  ^  ,    ,  ;„  the  world,  which  had  g.ven 

'  She  had  mingled  -  ffjf^^^  l,,r..,  that  little  could  be 
-^trir::— ofV  mind,  from  the  calm  and 

lit  immovable  placidity  of  «;^^^  ^  ^,,„,  ,„  „,ex- 
A  slight  look  of  ^»;P™:=,;'!!llv  unwelcome,  made  me  ted 
pected,  and,  in  all  Pf  ^/^Vth    situation  in  which  1  was 
lost  keenly  the  awkwardn       «  .^  ^^^^  ,^,  ,  Ued  to 

^'-^-    I"  htr  tSX  the  pleasure  of  a  .is.  fro» 
what  cause  sne  v^»o 


m 


m 


THE     M0NCT0N8. 


279 


Mr.  Geoffrey  Moncton,  did  not  tend  to  diminish  ray  con- 
fusion, 

I  suffered  my  agitation  so  completely  to  master  me,  that  for 
a  few  seconds  I  could  find  no  wc>]  wherewith  to  frame  the 
most  commonplace  answer. 

Observing  my  distress,  lie  begged  me  to  take  a  snat,  and 
placing  herself  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  table,  she  continued 
to  regard  me  with  the  most  provoking  nonchalance. 

Making  a  desperate  effort  to  break  the  oppr^siiiv  <  silence,  I 
contrived  at  last  to  stammer  out, 

"  I  hope,  madam,  you  will  excuse  the  liberty  I  have  taken  by 
thus  intruding  myself  upo?>  your  notice  ;  bui  buoioess  of  a  very 
delicate  and  distressn\_  nature  induced  me  to  app  7  to  you,  os 
the  only  person  at  aii  likely  to  befriend  me  In  my  present 
difficulty." 

Her  look  of  surprise  increased  ;  nor  do  I  wonder  at  it,  con- 
sidering the  ambiguity  of  my  speech.  What  must  she  have 
thought  ?  Nothing  very  favorable  to  me,  I  am  sure.  I  could 
have  bitten  my  tongue  off  for  my  want  of  tact,  but  the  blunder 
was  out,  and  she  answered  with  some  asperity. 

That  we  were  almost  strangers  to  each  other,  and  that  she 
could  not  imagine  in  what  way  she  could  serve  me,  "ithout  my 
request  was  a  pecuniary  one,  in  which  case,  she  owed  .re  a  debt 
of  gratitude  which  she  would  gladly  repay.  Tb\t  she  had 
heard,  with  sorrow,  from  Mr.  Theophilus  Moncton,  the  manner 
in  which  I  had  been  expelled  from  his  father's  office.  That  she 
bitterly  lamented  that  she  or  her  niece  should  hav*  directly  or 
indirectly  have  been  the  cause  of  my  disgrace.  She  had  been 
told,  however,  that  the  cause  of  Mr.  Moncton's  displeasure 
originated  in  my  own  rash  conduct,  and  she  feared  that  no 
application  from  her  in  ray  behalf,  would  be  likely  t  >  effect  a 
reconciliation  between  rae  and  my  uncle. 

The  color  burnt  upon  my  cheek,  and  I  answered  with  some 
warmth : 


f?  ,i 


u 

,A.(     1 


i;j,aa»«*» 


m 


280 


THE     MONCTONS 


seek  it  at  bis 


hands !    It  is 


i:„i,  „i,r,  .V  nor  to  compltti"      j^  ^__...  ,„    ■„u  ,00 


„emrto\c«ch.  ..ortoco^-^;  .;,;.v.w»Hh  ,oa 
„t  „,  past  iU-treatment    ba    I  ^     ^.^^  ^^^^^^^^  ,„d  my  e    » 

this  morning.    B'^^T^j-'^-     a"ast  uigbt  tl.at  yoa  wore  the 

sought  the  ground,     I  was   _ 

i„Umaterrie«<iofn.ymoth- 

"  And  who,  sir,  was  youi         ^^ 

„  Her  name  was  Ellen  Rwers.  ^.^^^^  .„  „„a  the 

,.  Good  Heavens  1  yoa  the  son  _^  ^^^^^^^  ji„„„. 

ealm  face  became  -^^l^^^Zsi  friend.    1  was  told  you 

ton,  the  child  of  my  first  amt  a       ^ 

u  the  ^-^^^::z^^  '^^-^  ^-''' ""  '''"'"■  ■ 

"  But  was  be  her  busbana  1 

"Who  dares  to  doubt  It.  He  positively  affirms 

..  Tins  same  honorable  "'f «  °   "  ";^-  ^.^^  ,f  Edward  Monc- 

that  my  mother  was  never  UwMy   >>e^  ,,,  i„famy. 

ton.    He  has  branded  ^'^^  ^^^     Jm  prove  my  legit.macy. 

and  destroyed  every  "-"f '^^  ;^:,,  /niggardly  destiny- 

The  only  advantage  7*"*  ^  *     .j ,.,  o„,  me  by  this  cold-blooded, 
ay  good  name-has  been  wr^u-ueai, 

'Tw^^rmull  excited  to  speaU  witb  moderation  •,  I  trem- 

bled  with  passion.  Hepbnrn,  speaking  in  a 

..  Be  calm,  Mr.  Geoffrey,"  -.'^  f^  '  ^  Ji,„gth  into  the  mat- 
natural  and  affectionate  tone.  J^         b  ^^  ^  ^^^^^^  ,,,,e... 

ter.  and  if  1  can  in  any  way  a  -     JO".  ^,,„,  between 

f„«y  ,  althougb  '.  ">-<;*  ;*t  awkward  piece  of  business^ 
the  families  just  now, '»  '«  >atte'  ^  ^^^^  ^^^^^j^^.i  ,ah 


THE     UONCTONS. 


281 


is 
rn, 

fOtt 

yes 

the 


,  the 
lonc- 
l  yovi 

eath. 

affirms 

Monc- 

infaniy, 

timacy. 

istiny— 

)looded, 

I  trem- 

•ing  ill  a 
the  mat- 

)st  clieer- 
between 
business. 

iited  with 
eep-seeing 
le  tale  you 
,li  or  false- 

e  and  bear- 


ing, I  ";)vc  her  a  brief  statement  of  the  events  of  my  life,  up  to 
the  hour  in  which  1  came  to  an  open  rupture  witii  my  uncle  ; 
and  he  basely  destroyed  my  articles,  and  I  found  myself  cast 
upon  tile  world  without  the  means  of  subsistence. 

Mrs.  Hepburn  was  greatly  astonished  at  the  narration,  and 
often  interrupted  mo  to  express  her  indignation. 

"  And  this  is  the  man,  that  bears  such  a  fair  character  to  the 
world.     Tiie  friend  of  the  friendless,  and  the  gua  of  inno- 

cence.    Geoffrey  Moncton,  you  make  me  afraid  oi  world, 

of  myself — of  every  one.     But  what  are  you  doii  \  hving, 

and  what  brings  you  into  Derbyshire  ?" 

"  I  am  living  at  present  in  the  family  of  Sir  Alexai  ;•  .vlonc- 
ton,  who  has  behaved  in  the  most  generous  manner  to  his  poor 
relation." 

"  You  have  in  him  a  powerful  protector." 

"  Yes,  and  I  may  add,  without  boasting,  a  sincere  friend.  It 
is  at  his  expense,  and  on  his  instigation  that  I  am  here,  in  order 
to  find  out  some  elue  by  which  I  may  trace  the  marriage  of  my 
dear  mother,  and  establish  a  legitimate  claim  to  the  title  and 
estates  of  Moncton,  at  the  worthy  Baronet's  demise,  an  event, 
which  may  God  keep  far  distant " — I  added  with  fervor. 

"  If  I  fail  in  this  object,  the  property  devolves  to  Robert 
Moncton  and  his  son." 

"  I  see  it,  I  see  it  all — but  I  fear,  Mr.  Geoffrey,  that  your 
uncle  has  laid  his  plans  too  deeply  for  us  to  frustrate.  I  feel  no 
doubts,  as  to  your  mother's  marriage,  though  I  was  not  present 
when  that  event  took  place,  but  I  can  tell  you  the  church  in 
which  the  ceremony  was  performed.  Your  mother  was  just  of 
age,  and  the  consent  of  parents  was  unnecessary,  as  far  as  the 
legality  of  the  marriage  was  concerned." 

"  God  bless  you  I"  I  cried,  taking  the  hand  she  extended  to 
me,  and  pressing  it  heartily  between  my  own.  "  My  mother's 
son  blesses  you,  for  the  kind  sympathy  you  have  expressed  in 


' 


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23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

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282 


THB    MONOTON  8. 


his  welfare.    You  are  my  good  angel,  and  have  inspired  me  with 
a  tboasand  new  and  pleasing  hopes."    jo  r»»  \  '.i   <<r  tv    ii?  i*\  ■' 

"  These  will  not,  however,  prove  your  legitimacy  my  yoang 
friend,"  she  said,  with  a  smile — "  so  restrain  your  ardor  for  a 
more  fortunate  time.  I  have  a  letter  from  your  mother,  written 
the  morning  after  her  marriage,  describing  her  feelings  during 
the  ceremony  and  the  remorse  that  marred  her  happiness,  for 
having  disobeyed  and  abandoned  her  aged  father.  She  mentions 
her  old  nnrse,  and  her  father's  gardener,  as  being  the  only  wit- ,. 
nesses  present,  and  remarks  on  the  sexton  giving  her  away, 
that  it  was  a  bad  omen,  that  she  felt  superstitious  about  it, . 
and  that  her  husband  laughed  at  her  fears. 

"The  register  of  the  marriage,  you  say,  has  been  destroyed. 
The  parties  who  witnessed  it,  are  most  likely  gathered  to  their 
fathers.  But  the  very  circumstance  of  the  register  having  beea 
destroyed,  and  this  letter  of  your  mother's,  will,  I  think,  be 

groatly  in  your  favor.     At  all  events,  the  parish  of is  only 

a  pleasant  ride  among  the  Derby  hills  ;  and  you  can  examine  . 
the  registers  for  a  trifling  donation  to  the  clerk  ;  and  ascertain  . 
from  him,  whether  Mr.  Roche,  the  clergyman  who  then  resided , 
in  the  parish,  or  his  sexton,  are  still  living. 

"  I  will  now  introduce  you  to  my  niece,  who  always  speaks  of 
you  with  interest,  and  refuses  to  believe  the  many  things  ad- 
vanced by  your  cousin  to  your  disadvantage." 

"  Just  like  Miss  Lee.  She  is  not  one  to  listen  to  the  slanders 
of  an  enemy,  behind  one's  back.  I  heard  in  the  village,  that 
Mr.  Theophilus  was  in  this  neighborhood,  and  a  suitor  of  Miss 
Lee's."        --  -  -:  -  -..,.  -  .,  .  '  •  ;;-   !'■ 

"A  mere  village  gossip.  He  is  staying  with  Mr.  Thurton, 
who  lives  in  the  pretty  old-fashioned  house,  you  passed  on  the 
hill,  on  yc'jr  way  hither,  and  is  a  frequent  visitor  here.  Mr. 
Moncton  is  anxious  to  promote  an  alliance  between  his  son  and 
my  niece.  In  birth  and  fortune,  they  are  equals,  and  t^ie 
match,  in  a  worldly  point  of  view,  unexceptional." 


■■•    -Miti>M 


THE     MCNCTONS. 


283 


"  And  Theophilus ?''  >>»  vie  tto  KVy     ^t^rW?*  i*^^; 

"  Is  the  most  devoted  of  lovers." 

"  Execrable  villain  !  and  his  poor  yonng  wife  dying  at  the 
Hall  of  a  broken  heart.  Can  snch  things  be — and  the  vengeance 
of  heaven  sleep  1" 

"  Yon  don't  mean  to  insinuate  that  Mr.  Theophilns  Moncton 
is  a  married  man." 

"  I  scorn  insinuations,  I  speak  of  facts — which  to  his  face,  I 
dare  him  to  deny." 

"  My  dear  Kate  1"  cried  Mrs.  Hepburn  sinking  back  iu  her 
chair.  "  I  have  combated  for  several  weeks  with  what  I  con- 
sidered an  unreasonable  prejudice  on  her  part  against  this  mar- 
riage. And  this  very  morning  I  was  congratulating  myself  on 
the  possibility  of  getting  her  to  receive  Mr.  Moncton's  suit  more 
favorably.  Ah,  Mr.  Geoflfrey  !  doubly  her  preserver,  your  timely 
visit  has  saved  the  dear  girl  from  unutterable  misery."  ■•    - 

I  then  informed  Mrs.  Hepburn,  of  all  the  particulars  of  this 
unfortunate  marriage.  Of  young  Moncton's  desertion  and 
barbarous  treatment  of  his  wife — of  her  attempted  suicide,  and 
the  providential  manner  in  which  she  had  been  rescued  by  me 
from  the  grave.  ->.   >-    u         »  „.  .t !   ^..,  -.  .  .„,^  i^;    ..t   . 

This  painful  interview,  which  had  lasted  several  hours,  was 
at  length  terminated  by  the  entrance  of  Miss  Lee  and  Theophi- 
lns, who  had  been  absent  riding  with  some  friends.     ♦ '  -  i:  > 

They  entered  from  the  garden,  and  Mrs.  Hepburn  and  I  were 
so  deeply  engaged  in  conversation  that  we  did  not  notice  their 
approach  until  Catherine  called  out  in  a  tone  of  alarm  : — 

"  Mr.  Geoffrey  Moncton  here,  and  my  aunt  in  tears  ?  What 
can  have  happened  ?"      "  '^    " -i.    >*•      ^^       4» 

"  Yes,  Kate,  you  will  be  glad  to  see  an  old  friend,"  said  her 
aunt.  "  To  you,  Mr.  Moncton,"  turning  to  Theophilns,  "  he  is 
the  bearer  of  sad  tidings."    v         *         ;     :  [■'•\    -     ■  tr  " '* 

"  Anything  happened  to  my  father  ?"  said  Theophilus,  looking 


/ 


iJ84 


THE    MONCTONS. 


!'• 


towards  me  with  an  expression  in  his  green  eyes,  of  intense  and 

hungry  inquiry,  which,  for  a  moment,  overcame  his'  first  glance 

of  aversion  and  contempt.  ""  '  vTa-,.'* 

I  read  the  meaning  of  that  look,  and  answered  scorn  for 
scorn.  •.    !      '      /  • 

"  Of  your  father  and  his  affairs  I  know  nothing.  The  tie  of 
kindred  is  broken  between  us.  I  wish  that  I  knew  as  little  of 
you  and  yours."      .  .  -r-^f 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?"  and  his  pale  cheek  flushed  with  crimson. 
"  Is  it  to  traduce  my  character,  to  insult  me  before  ladies,  that 
you  dare  to  intrude  yourself  in  my  company  ?  What  brings 
you  here  ?    What  message  have  you  for  me  ?"     * 

"  With  you,"  I  said,  coldly,  "  I  have  no  business,  nor  did  I 
ever  wish  to  see  you  again.  My  steps  were  guided  here  by  that 
Providence  which  watches  over  the  innocent,  and  avenges  the 
wrongs  of  the  injured.  Tt  is  not  my  nature  to  stab  eve6  an 
enemy  in  the  dark.  Whn.t  I  have  to  say  to  you  will  be  said 
openly  and  to  your  face." 

"  This  is  fine  language,"  he  said,  bursting  iutj  a  scornful 
la  "  On  what  provincial  theatre  have  you  been  studying, 

siii^-  you  were  expelled  my  father's  office  ?" 

"  I  have  not  yet  learned  to  act  the  part  of  the  hypocrite  and 
betrayer,  in  the  great  drama  of  life.  Or  by  lying  and  deceit  to 
exalt  myself  upon  the  ruin  of  others." 

"  Go  on,  go  on,"  he  cried,  "  I  perceive  your  drift.  You  are 
a  better  actor  than  you  imagine  yourself.  ,  Such  accusations  as 
you  can  bring  against  me,  will  redound  more  to  my  credit  than 
praise  from  such  lips." 

"  Theophilus  Moncton,"  I  replied,  calmly,  "  I  did  not  invade 
the  sanctity  of  this  roof  in  order  to  meet  and  quarrel  with  you. 
What  I  have  to  say  to  you  I  will  communicate  elsewhere." 

"  Here,  sir,  if  you  please — here  to  my  face.  I  am  no  coward, 
and  thai  you  know  of  old.    I  am  certain  that  you  cannot  name 


:■*>■ 


•^^r^v^/^^y^ 


THE     MONCTONS 


285 


anything  to  my  disadvantage,  but  what  I  am  able  triumphantly 
to,  refute." 

"  Well — be  it  so  then.  I  find  you  here  a  suitor  for  this  lady's 
band.  Four  days  ago  your  wife  attempted  suicide,  and  was 
rescued  from  a  watery  grave  by  my  arm." 

"  Liar  I  'tis  false  !  Do  not  listen,  ladies,  to  this  vile  calum- 
niator. He  has  a  purpose  of  his  own  to  serve,  by  traducing  my 
character  to  my  friends.  Let  him  bring  witnesses  more  worthy 
of  credit  than  himself,  before  you  condemn  me."         ' 

"  I  condemn  no  one,  Mr.  Theophilus,"  said  Mrs.  Hepburn, 
gravely.  "  Sir  Alexander  Moncton  is  a  person  of  credit,  and 
your  wife  is  at  present  under  his  protection.  What  can  you  say 
to  this?"  .       . 

She  spoke  in  vain.  Theophilus  left  the  room  without  deign- 
ing to  reply.     We  looked  in  silence  at  each  other. 

Miss  Lee  was  the  first  who  spoke.  '  ''  *" 

"  He  is  convicted  by  his  own  conscience.'  I  thought  him  cold 
and  selfish,  but  never  dreamed  that  he  was  a  villain.  And  the 
poor  young  woman,  his  wife,  what  is  her  name  ?" 

"  Alice  Mornington." 

A  faint  cry  broke  from  the  lips  of  Catherine,  I  caught  her 
in  my  arms  before  she  fell,  and  placed  her  in  a  chair  ;  she  had 
fainted.  Mrs.  Hepburn  rang  the'  bell  for  one  of  her  female 
attendants,  and  amid  the  bustle  and  confusion  of  removing  Miss 
Lee  to  her  own  apartment,  I  took  the  opportunity  of  retiring 
from  the  scene. 

"  What  new  mystery  does  this  involve  ?"  I  said  half  aloud,  as 
I  sauntered  down  the  thick  avenue  which  led  from  the  house  to 
the  high-road.  "  Why  did  the  mention  of  that  name  produce 
such  an  effect  upon  Catherine  ?  She  cannot  be  acquainted  with 
the  parties.  Her  agitation  might  be  accidental.  'Tis  strange 
— very  strange  " 

"  Stop  !"  cried  a  loud  voice  near  me  ;  and  pale  and  haggard, 


-ti. 


.m,f 


%* 


286 


THE    MONOTONB. 


«*or+inff  from  his  head, 
,UWs  fiercely  elencW,  and  Ws  eye,  starung  ft 

Theopbilus  confronted  me.  i^gt." 

"  With  all  my  w*"  > 
steadfastly  in  the  face.  ^       ^ion  of  that  countenance, 

Nover  shall  I  f<"«?»»  ^''jX  pa-""  i  l'"^'  ~":"^''  '' 
transformed  as  '' ^-^^  J* ^"Xg'.ith  malice  and  despa.r. 

'"-^  rir*:  — r-scfrce,y  human. 

"r:S-e-4— r"aleantion.    in 
Jirtrri;t";nyfi.nre.on.dha«heena 

-tfr^Sanation  of  yonr  <— ^he  said  ^^^^ 
e.ch  other  f  he  gnashed  his  t.t    -^   .^  ^^^  ^ 

-;r^:;ir£;r^.---  -ef.iu-ihe 

X^^  npo»  »e  «na,ares.    ^^^^^^^^^  ^S 
anus  around  me,    I  ^as  take"  b^surP  ^^^^^  ^  ^^ 

raise  my  arm  to  defend  myself  from  h  s  ^^^^  ^  ^^^  ^ 

thrown  heavily  to  *«  ^J-'tony  fi^s  grasping  my  throat, 
tinctly  recoUect  was  his  tbm  bony  n  s  . 


,    ...     "  ■  ^-^ 
-.,    ,../■  ■  ■■'■ .  t'."-^  ■>•(  - '  j 


^«  1^*       '^■•''      '*''^ 


-iYf  Ev';  *1  ti-:^'-  ,-'-lK5ey  :> 


■■*■.- 


'* 


i^HE     MONOTONS. 


287 


)ad, 


him 

ance, 
Ised  •, 
spair. 


been  a 

jfQ  hate 
5  ruined 
pUment. 
shall  be 

sinewy 
I  conld 

;k,  I  was 
can  dis- 

throat. 


fc««fiiC;*;i'f»^»i  i.rVi.'t'ijn-  '  V    -,>,  -^'fd  • 


,  I..  ;ii  ;> 


'^.U 


'"}'    "    ■♦'     v-- 


■  fc 


.      CHAPTER  XXVII. 

■        I 

MY    NURSE — AND   WHO    SHE   WAS 


The  night  was  far  advanced  when  I  recoyered  my  senses. 
The  room  I  occapied  was  large  and  spacious  ;  the  bed  on  which 
I  was  lying  such  as  wealth  supplies  to  her  most  luxurious  child- 
ren. One  watch-light  with  shaded  rays,  scarcely  illuminated  a 
small  portion  of  the  ample  chamber,  leaving  the  remote  corners 
in  intense  shade. 

A  female  figure,  in  a  long,  loose,  white  wrapping-gown,  was 
seated  at  the  table  reading.  Her  back  was  towards  me,  and 
my  head  was  too  heavy  and  my  eyes  too  dim  to  recognize  the 
person  of  the  stranger. 

I  strove  to  lift  my  head  from  the  pillow  ;  the  effort  wrung 
from  my  lips  a  moan  of  pain.  This  brought  the  lady  instantly 
to  my  side. 

It  was  Mrs.  Hepburn's  face,  but  it  faded  from  my  sight  like 
the  faces  that  look  upon  us  in  dreams.  Recollection  and  sight 
failed  me — I  remember  nothing  more. 

Many  days  passed  unconsciously  over  me.  Nearly  three 
weeks  elapsed  before  I  was  able  to  bear  the  light,  or  ask  an 
explanation  of  the  past. 

Mrs.  Hepburn  and  Miss  Lee  were  my  constant  attendants,  and 
a  middle-aged,  respectable  man  in  livery,  who  slept  in  my  apart- 
ment, and  rendered  me  the  most  kind  and  essential  services. 
Dan  Simpson  was  an  old  servant  of  the  family.  Had  been  born 
on  the  estate,  and  lived  for  thirty  years  under  that  roof.    He 


THB    UqSOTOSB. 


'^  \  worthy  pious  ™».  ■""*  '"""?  rCta'to  the  close  ot 
;:  Me.    Had  it  ^"^ ^:Z:Z^,'^,U  neve,  have  Uved  to 

r :ir:J'l  -•'— :U  rei»cta»ce.    The  .a^e- 
'^LopWto  left  l>is^«=''"'  *f  tdead  and  he  told  him  that 
,eS:'thon.htatfi.t;--^^^^^^^ 
he  bad  better  be  off.  or  he    ^^^^  ^^^^  ^^^  ^^^^g^^  and  Theop 

him  convicted  for  ^^^y^"""  neighborhood.  -      ^r:- 

lus  lost  no  time  in  ^"^^^^"^^^^^^^^  against  the  trunk  of  a 

I  had  fallen  with  the  ^;f  jj^^^^^^^^  of  the  bram    _ 

oim  tree  which  had  causea  ^^  ^g  possible, 

'Tvt:  r^t  be  cnite  f^l'/^.J^tf..  In  the  ladles  must 
,t„ni  be  bad  for  jon,"  sa.d  Sunpson^  ^      ^^^^^  ^ 

It  voa  as  seldom  as  t^^J  ''f  j     '  ^e  possible  to  keep 
C;  ;«  silen;  »..  but  m  be  da^ed  .t  vt  b^P_^^  ,,, 

«!';:  tongues  from  waggm  •    They^^  ^^^^  j    , 

ears  were  always  wide  open  .  .. 

I,ee'8  musical  voice,  when  .  .  ^      ^ 


//. 


TH  B     IIONCTON  B. 


fi89 


ess 

of 

lose 

i  to 

;aine- 
witb 

Iden^y 
tve  T»® 

s  gatne- 
jft  tbat 
ad  bave 
Cheopli^- 

■unt  of  a 

in. 

3  possible, 

.dies  tntist 
manage  to 
3\e  to  keep 
matter  tbe 
S8ib\e  for  a 

)retty.    1'^ 
OUT  young 

[you'll  1^0^® 

.onest  Data's 
jy  eyes  and 
md  bet  aunt 

tones  of  Kate 
I  bending  over 


me,  and  she  inqaired  in  such  an  earnest  and  tender  manner,  how 
I  was,  and  how  I  had  passed  the  night  ?" 

"  Always  the  better  for  seeing  and  hearing  yon,  charming 
Kate,  I  would  have  answered  had  I  dared." 

One  afternoon,  Kate  was  absent,  and  the  dear  old  lady,  her 
good  aunt  came  to  sit  with  me,  and  read  to  me  while  she  was 
away.  It  was  always  good  pious  books  she  read,  and  I  tried  to 
feel  interested  ;  but  they  were  dull,  and  if  they  failed  to  convert 
me,  they  never  failed  in  putting  me  to  sleep.  Knowing  the  result, 
I  always  listened  patiently,  and  in  less  than  half  an  hour  was 
certain  to  obtain  my  reward. 

"  I  have  no  doubt,  that  the  soporific  quality  of  these  sermons, 
by  quieting  my  mind  and  producing  wholesome  repose,  did  more 
to  enhance  my  recovery,  than  all  the  lotions  and  medicines 
administered  by  the  family  physician — who  was  another  worthy 
but  exceedingly  prosy  individual." 

It  so  happened  that  this  afternoon  my  kind  old  friend  was 
inclined  for  a  chat.  She  sat  down  near  my  bed,  and  after  feel- 
ing my  pulse,  and  telling  me  that  I  was  going  on  nicely — she 
began  to  talk  over  my  late  misadventure. 

"  It  is  a  mercy  that  your  life  was  spared,  Geoffrey.  Who 
could  have  imagined  that  your  cousin,  with  his  smooth  courteous 
manners  and  silken  voice  was  such  a  ruffian," 

'  The  snake  is  beautiful  and  graceful,"  said  I,  "  yet  the 
venom  it  conceals  produces  death.  Theophilus  has  many  quali- 
ties in  common  with  the  reptile.  Smooth,  insidious,  and  deadly. 
He  always  strikes  to  kill." 

His  encounter  with  you,  Geoffrey,  has  removed  every  doubt 

from  our  minds,  as  to  his  real  character  and  the  truth  of  your 

statements.  •  I  cannot   think   without  a  shudder,  of  the  bare 

[possibility  of  my  amiable  Kate  becoming  the  wife  of  such  a 

[villain." 

"  Could  Miss  Lee  really  entertain  the  least  regard  for  such  a 
lan,"  I  cried,  indignant  at  the  bare  supposition. 

13 


' 


y 


290 


THE     MONGTONS. 


"  Hash,  Geoffrey.  You  must  not  talk  above  a  whisper.  Yoa 
know  Dr.  Lake  has  forbidden  you  to  do  that." 

"  Kate  never  loved  Thcophilus.  She  might,  however,  have 
yielded  to  my  earnest  importunities  for  her  to  become  his  wife. 
Mr.  Moncton  is  her  guardian,  and  some  difficulties  attend  the 
settlement  of  her  property,  which  this  union,  would  in  all  proba- 
bility have  removed.  You  know  *he  manner  in  which  lawyers 
cut  out  work  for  themselves,  Mr.  Moncton.  I  have  no  doubt,  it 
is  the  only  real  obstacle  in  the  way." 

"  More  than  probable,"  whispered  I,  for  I  wanted  the  old  lady 
to  go  on  talking  about  Kate;  "  but,  dear  Mrs.  Hepburn,  I  have 
a  perfect  horror  of  these  marriages  without  affection  ;  they 
seldom  turn  out  well.  Poor  as  I  am  I  would  never  sacrifice  the 
happiness  of  a  whole  life  by  contracting  such  a  marriage." 

"  Young  people  always  think  so,  but  a  few  years  produce  a 
great  change  in  their  sentiments.  I  am  always  sorry  when  I 
hear  of  a  young  man  or  woman  being  desperately  in  love,  for  it 
generally  ends  in  disappointment.  A  heavy  trial  of  this  kind — 
a  most  unfortunate  engagement  in  early  youth,  has  rendered  poor 
Catharine  indifferent  to  the  voice  of  love." 

I  felt  humbled  and  mortified  by  this  speech,  I  turned  upon 
my  pillow  to  conceal  my  face  from  my  kind  nurse.  Good 
heavens  I  Could  it  be  true,  that  I  had  only  loved  the  phantom 
of  a  dream — had  followed  for  so  many  weary  months  a  creature 
of  imagination — a  woman  who  had  no  heart  to  bestow  upon  her 
humble  worshipper  ? 

I  had  flattered  myself  that  I  was  not  indifferent  to  Miss  Lee : 
had  even  dared  to  hope  that  she  loved  me. 

What  visions  of  future  happiness  in  store  for  me,  had  these 
presumptuous  hopes  foretold.  What  stately  castles  had  I  not 
erected  upon  this  sandy  foundation,  which  I  was  now  doomed  to 
see  perish,  as  it  were  within  my  grasp  ? 

My  bosom  heaved,  and  my  eyes  became  dim,  but  I  proudly 
strngglpd  with  my  feelings,  and  turning  to  Mrs.  Hepburn,  I 


THR     MONOTONS 


S»l 


inqaired  with  apparent  calmness,  "  If  any  letters  had  arrived 
for  me?"  She  said  she  did  nut  knowr,  but  would  send  to  the 
post-office  and  inquire. 

I  then,  by  mere  chance,  remembered  the  name  that  Sir  Alex- 
ander had  bestowed  upon  me,  and  told  Simpson,  who  had  just 
then  entered,  to  ask  for  letters  for  Mr.  Tremain. 

I  felt  restless  and  unhappy,  and  feigned  sleep,  in  order  to  be 
left  alone — and  when  alone,  if  a  few  tears  did  come  to  my  relief 
to  cool  the  fever  in  my  heart  and  brain,  the  reader  who  has  ever 
loved  will  excuse  the  weakness. 

I  could  not  forgive  my  charming  Kate,  for  having  loved 
another,  when  I  felt  that  she  ought  to  have  loved  me.  Had  I 
not  saved  her  life  at  the  risk  of  my  own — had  I  not  been  true 
to  her  at  the  sacrifice  of  my  best  interests,  and  slighted  the  pure 
devoted  affection  of  Margaretta  Moncton,  for  the  love  of  one 
who  loved  me  not — who  never  had  loved  »^-'>,  though  I  had  wor- 
shipped her  image  in  the  innermost  shrine  of  my  heart  ?  Alas  I 
for  poor  human  nature :  this  severe  trial  was  more  than  my 
philosophy  could  bear. 

From  these  painful  and  mortifying  reflections  I  was  aroused 
by  the  light  step  of  the  beautiful  delinquent,  who,  radiant  in 
youth  and  loveliness,  entered  the  room. 

I  glanced  at  her  from  under  my  half-closed  eyelids.  I  regard- 
ed her  as  a  fallen  angel.  She  had  dared  to  love  another,  and 
half  her  beauty  had  vanished. 

She  came  to  my  bed-side,  and  in  accents  of  the  tenderest  con- 
cern, inquired  after  my  health. 

"  What  have  you  been  doing,  Geoffrey— not  talking  too  much 
I  hope  ?  You  look  ill  and  feverish.  See,  I  have  brought  you  a 
present — a  nosegay  of  wild  flowers,  gathered  in  the  woods. 
Are  they  not  beautiful  ?" 

To  look  into  her  sweet  face,  and  entertain  other  feelings  than 
those  of  respect  and  admiration,  was  impossible.    I  took  the 


W'  'T 


202 


THt     1ION0T0N8. 


2"  3  A 

I      1  ♦Kftt  DTofered  them,  ana 

tried  to  thank  her.    My  "p    i 

and  turned  away.  a^ar  friend,"  Ae  «»W. 

..  Yo«  are  out  of  spint.  0«°«'^;JJ  ,.,,  fl„ger  on  the  p»l»e 
ritting  down  by  my  l^O-f «' '"'*,iCy  on  the  coverlid ;  "  yon 
:,  th!  emaciated  band  ^^at J^  ;  f  Jession  or  you  will  never 
„u,t  try  and  overcome  thes^^at»  of  d  P  ^^  ^^^         , 

«"""•    ^''ISteri  ng.— .  and  that  ha,  made  you 

been  preachmg  one  ot  ner  wub 

nervous  and  melancholy."  ^^^j  ^ould  neither 

Another  deep  sigh  and  a  shake  ol  in 

look  at  her.  nor  trust  >»y»f  '»  ^^f ;„,,  ,„„„  affects  your  mind, 
.-Your  long  conanement  m  this  duu  _^.^  ^^  ^^^^^„ 

GeoLy.    It «  bard  to  be  de  a     ^  *»  «^^^,       ,,,,,  ,eart. 

-:::t.Tnrw:;:^rs:reve^.  evening  behind  ^^ 

t)le  hills."  ,        ,  „^.  too  Kood  to  me,  Miss  Lee. 

better  for  me  had  I  died."  Q.^timents  are  unworthy  of 

destruction."  ,        r  ^o  live  V 

..Why,  what  inducements  h"'' It         ^^,^_^^^  that  God  ha. 

"Many,  if  it  be  only  t»  ."F";;.^  ^^^  „  ufe  ha,  been 
committed  to  yo«r  1^«P»^S-  J  ^^„„„t  of  guilt,  if  you  neg- 
spared,  and  the  heav  er  w.U  be  y  ^^  ^^^^      „ 

iLt  so  great  salvation.    God  ha  p  ^^^  ^^^^ 

^\o  Him  for  such  signal  merc.est  „,,,,.. 


THE     MONOTONf. 


208 


"  Indeed  I  have  not  thought  of  my  preservation  in  tiiis  way 
before,  nor  have  I  been  so  grateful  as  I  ought  to  have  been.  I 
have  8u£fered  human  passions  and  aflfectious  t^  stand  between 
me  and  heaven." 

"  We  are  all  too  prone  to  do  that,  Geoffrey.  The  mind,  in 
its  natural  and  unconverted  state,  cannot  comprehend  the 
tender  mercies  of  the  Creator.  Human  nature  is  so  scliisb,  left 
to  its  own  guidance,  that  it  needs  the  purifying  influences  of 
religion  to  lift  the  soul  from  grovelling  in  the  dust.  I  am  no 
bigot — no  disputer  about  creeds  and  forms  of  worship,  but  I 
know  that  without  God,  no  one  can  bo  happy  or  contented  in 
any  station  of  life,  or  under  any  circumstances." 

Seeing  that  I  did  not  answer,  she  released  the  band  that  she 
had  retained  within  her  own,  and  said  very  gently  : 

"  Forj^iVe  mo,  Geoffrey,  if  I  have  wounded  your  feelings." 

"  Go  on — go  on.  I  could  hear  you  talk  for  ever,  dear  MisH 
Lee." 

"You  have  grown  very  formal,  Geoffrey — why  Miss  Lee? 
During  your  illness,  I  have  been  simple  Kate." 

"  But  I  am  getting  well  now,"  and  I  tried  to  smile  ;  my  heart 
was  too  sore.  "  Oh,  Catherine,"  I  cried,  "  forgive  my  way- 
wardness, for  I  am  very  unhappy." 

"  You  have  been  placed  in  very  trying  circumstances,  but  I 
feel  an  inward  conviction  that  you  will  overcome  them  all."        ' 

•*  My  grief  has  nothing  to  do  with  that,"  I  said,  looking  at 
her  very  earnestly. 

I  read  in  her  countenance  pity  and  surprise,  but  no  tenderer 
emotion.  "V 

"  May  I — dare  I,  dearest  Catherine,  unburden  my  heart  to 
you?" 

"  Speak  freely  and  candidly,  Geoffrey.  If  I  cannot  remove 
the  cause  of  your  distress,  you  may  be  certain  of  my  advice  and 
sympathy."  ,  *    ' 


294 


THE     M  0  N  OTON  S. 


"  Heaven  bless  you  for  that  I"  I  murmured,  kissing  the  hand 
which  disengaged  itself  gently  from  my  grasp,  and  with  a  color 
somewhat  heightened,  Catherine  bent  towards  me  in  a  listening 
attitude. 

The  ice  once  broken,  I  determined  to  tell  her  all ;  and  in  low 
and  broken  accents  I  proceeded  to  inform  her  of  my  boyish 
attachment,  and  the  fond  hopes  I  had  dared  to  entertain,  from 
the  kind  and  flattering  manner  in  which  she  had  returned  my 
attentions  at  Mr.  Moncton's,  and  of  the  utter  annihilation  of 
these  ardently  cherished  hopes,  when  informed  by  Mrs.  Hepburn 
that  afternoon,  that  her  affections  had  been  bestowed  upon  some 
more  fortunate  person. 

Daring  my  incoherent  confession,  Miss  Lee  was  greatly 
agitated. 

Her  face  was  turned  from  me,  but  from  the  listless  attitude 
of  her  figure,  and  the  motionless  repose  of  the  white  hand  that 
fell  over  the  arm  of  the  chair  in  which  she  was  seated,  I  saw 
that  she  was  weeping. 

Then  came  a  long,  painful  pause.  Catherine  at  length  wiped 
away  her  tears,  and  broke  the  oppressive  silence. 

"  Geoffrey,"  she  said,  solemnly,  "  T  have  been  to  blame  in 
this.  At  the  time  you  saved  my  life  (a  service  for  which  I  can 
never  feel  suflficiently  grateful,  for  I  value  life  and  all  its  mercies) 
I  was  young  and  happy,  engaged  to  one,  who  in  many  respects, 
though  older  by  some  years,  resembled  yourself. 

"When  I  met  you  the  second  time  at  your  uncle's,  disap- 
pointment had  flung  a  baleful  shade  over  my  first  fond  anticipa- 
tions of  life  ;  but,  young  and  sanguine,  I  still  hoped  for  the  best. 

"  By  some  strange  coincidence,  your  voice  and  manner  greatly 
resembled  those  of  the  man  I  loved,  and  whom  I  still  fondly 
hoped  to  meet  again.  This  circumstance  attracted  me  towards 
you,  and  I  felt  great  pleasure  in  conversing  with  you,  as  every 
look  and  tone  reminded  me  of  him.    This,  doubtless,  gave  rise 


4 


•4'. 


// 


THE     MONtiTONS. 


295 


eind 
slor 
liug 

low 
)yi8h 
from 

i  my 
>n  of 
[)bura 
,  some 


s,  disap- 
anticipa- 
the  best, 
jr  greatly 
ill  fondly 
towards 
as  every 
gave  rise 


to  the  attachment  you  have  just  revealed  to  me,  and  which  I 
must  nnceasingly  lament,  as  it  is  impossible  for  me  to  make  you 
any  adequate  return." 

"  And  is  my  rival  still  dear  to  you.  Miss  Lee  ?" 

Her  lips  again  quivered,  and  she  turned  weeping  away. 

"  I  read  my  fate  in  your  silence.    You  love  him  yet  ?" 

"  And  shall  continue  to  love  him  whilst  I  have  life,  Geoffrey 
Moncton,"  slowly  and  suffocatingly  broke  from  the  pale  lips  of 
the  trembling  girl. 

"  And  you  would  have  been  persuaded  by  your  aunt  to  marry 
Theophilus  Moncton  ?" 

"  Never  I  Who  told  you  that  ?"  and  her  eye  flashed  proudly, 
almost  scornfully  upon  me." 

"  Your  good  aunt." 

"  She  knows  nothing  about  it.  I  ceased  to  oppose  her  wishes 
in  words,  because  I  found  that  it  might  produce  a  rupture 
between  us.  Women  of  my  aunt's  age,  have  outlived  their 
sympathies  in  affairs  of  the  heart.  What  they  once  felt  they 
have  forgotten,  or  look  upon  as  a  weakness  which  ought  not  to 
be  tolerated  in  their  conversations  with  the  young. 

"  But  look  at  that  fine  candid  face,  Geoffrey  ;  that  open 
benevolent  brow,  and  tell  me,  if  having  once  loved  the  original, 
it  is  such  an  easy  matter  to  forget  or  to  find  a  substitute  in 
such  a  being  as  Theophilus  Moncton." 

As  she  said  this  she  took  a  portrait  that  was  suspended 
by  a  gold  chain  from  the  inner  folds  which  covered  her  beautiful 
bosom,  and  placed  it  in  my  hand. 

"  Good  heavens  1"  I  cried,  sinking  back  upon  the  pillow, 
"  my  friend,  George  Harrison  P 

"  Who  ?    I  know  no  one  of  that  name." 

"  True — tri^.  George  Harrison — Philip  Mornington — they 
are  one  and  ihe  same.  •  And  his  adored  and  lost  Charlotte 
Laurie,  and  my  beautiful  Catherine  Lee  are  identified.  I  see 
through  it  now.    He  hid  the  truth  from  me,  fearing  that  it 


% 


290 


TUB     MONGTONI. 


In  all  other 


r 


might  destroy  our  friendship.    Honesty  in  thir, 
cases,  would  have  been  the  best  policy." 

"  Philip  is  still  alive  1  Not  hearing  of  him  for  so  many 
months  made  me  conclade  that  he  was  either  dead  or  had  left 
England  in  disgust." 

"  He  still  lives,  and  loves  you,  Kate,  with  all  the  fervor  of  a 
first  attachment." 

"I  do  not  deserve  it,  Geoffrey.  I  dared  to  mistrust  his 
honor,  to  listen  to  base  calumnies  propagated  by  Theophilus 
and  his  father,  purposely,  I  now  believe,  to  injure  him  in  my 
estimation.  But  what  young  girl,  ignorant  of  the  world  and 
the  ways  of  designing  men,  could  suspect  such  a  grave,  plausible 
man  as  Robert  Moncton,  who,  outwardly,  always  manifested  the 
most  afiectionate  interest  in  my  happiness.  I  much  fear  that 
my  coldness  had  a  very  bad  effect  upon  Philip's  character,  and 
was  the  means  of  leading  him  into  excesses,  that  ultimately 
led  to  his  ruin." 

I  was  perplexed,  and  knew  not  what  answer  to  make,  i.>r  she 
had  hit  upon  the  plain  truth.  To  tell  her  so,  was  to  plunge  an 
amiable  creature  into  the  deepest  affliction,  and  to  withhold  it 
was  not  doing  justice  to  the  friend,  whom,  above  all  of  his  sex, 
I  loved  and  valued. 

With  the  quick  eye  of  love,  and  the  tact  of  woman,  Kate 
perceived  my  confusion,  and  guessed  the  cause ;  she  broke  into  a 
fit  of  passionate  weeping. 

"  Dear  Kate,"  I  began,  with  difficulty  raising  myself  on  the 
pillow,  "  control  this  violent  emotion  and  I  will  tell  you  all  I 
know  of  my  friend." 

She  looked  eagerly  up  through  her  tears  ;  but  the  task  I  had 
imposed  upon  myself  was  beyond  my  strength  to  fulfill.  My 
nerves  were  so  completely  shattered  by  the  agij^ng  effects  of 
the  past  scene,  that  I  sank  back  exhaucted  aniS^lbping  on  the 
pillow. 

"  Not  now — not  now,  Geoffrey,  you  are  aneqaal  to  the  task. 


T  H  £     M  0  N  C  T  0  N  S  . 


297 


This  conversation  has  tried  you  too  much."  And  raising  my 
head  upon  her  arm,  she  bathed  my  temples  with  eau  de  Cologne, 
and  hastened  to  administer  a  restorative  from  the  phial  that 
stood  on  the  table.  * 

"  I  shal]  be  better  now  I  know  the  worst,"  I  said  ;  and 
closing  my  eyes  for  a  few  moments,  my  head  rested  passively 
on  her  snow-white  shoulder. 

A  few  hours  back,  and  the  touch  of  those  fair  hands  would 
have  thrilled  my  whole  frame  with  delight  ;  but  now  it  awoke 
in  me  little  or  no  emotion.  The  beautiful  dream  had  vanished. 
My  adored  Catherine  Lee  was  the  betrothed  of  my  friend  ;  and 
I  could  gaze  upon  her  pale  agitated  face  with  calmness — with 
brotherly,  platonic  love.  I  was  only  now  anxious  to  effect  a 
reconciliation  between  George  and  his  Kate,  and  I  rejoiced 
that  the  means  were  in  all  probability  in  my  power. 

The  entrance  of  Mrs.  Hepburn  with  letters,  put  an  end  to 
this  painful  scene  ;  while  their  contents  gave  rise  to  other 
thoughts  and  feelings,  hopes  and  fears. 

"  I  cannot  read  them  yet,"  I  said,  after  having  examined 
the  handwriting  in  v/hich  the  letters  were  directed,  "  My  eyes 
are  dim.  I  am  too  weak.  Tiie  rest  of  an  hour  will  restore  me. 
The  sight  of  these  letters  makes  me  nervous,  and  agitates  me 
too  much.  Tiiey  are  from  Sir  Alexander  and  his  daughter,  and 
may  contain  important  tidings." 

•*  Let  us  go,  dear  aunt,"  whispered  Kate,  slipping  her  arm 
through  Mrs.  Hepburn's.  "  It  will  be  better  to  leave  Geoffrey 
for  a^ile  alone." 

They  left  the  room  instantly.  I  was  relieved  by  their  absence. 
My  heart  was  oppressed  with  painful  thoughts.  I  wanted  to 
be  alone — to  commune  with  my  own  spirit,  and  be  still. 

A  few  mini^H^ad  scarcely  elapsed,  and  I  was  sound  asleep. 


> 


;he  task. 


13* 


^ 


298 


HE     M0NCT0N8 


CHAPTER    XXVIII. 

.  .  VM  when  I  again  andosed  my  eyes. 
•  D^v  was  waning  into  "•S^'^'J^^/^j J  agitation  of  the  pre- 
A  sober  calm  bad  suceeeded  ''e  b"^;^"^  ^^i,,,^  the  lover  of 
vioos  hours.  I  was  no  longer  -^  'J"  J^^,  ,„  Moncton  Park, 
Catherine  Lee.  ^^ ^^f^t Z,^...  had  flitted  beside  , 
and  in  dreams  the  fairy  ngure 
,„e,  throngb  its  green  arcades^  ^^^  ^^^  ^^  t^,  l-ght 

-^-Z^:^^  that,  master  Geo«rey-yonr  eyes  are  too 

weak  to  read  such  fine  f^^^^\^^        ^on  must  allow  me  to  do 
"  My  good  fellow,  only  a  few  lines. 

that-"  „u  .  •„  *!„>  use  of  all  this  nursing  if  yon 

"  ^"^  '  '"' w„  way  t    il ""  ^  d»*  "'  *«^  '*^'# '"' 
will  have  your  own  way  f 

rrCtlal  of  trouble  that  would  save  you."  said  I,  look- 

fog  at  him  reproachfully.  _^      .  ^an.     "The 

.•Who  called  it  trouble?  not  J'    "       t^^„d  obey  those 

,,„„ble  is  a  pleasure  if  you  J^^^^^''^  Ji-s  of  acting 

who  mean  you  we  1.    N"'^/""  *  f  Vu  would  talk  to  the  mis- 
againsl  reason  and  common  sense. 


THE    MONCTONS. 


299 


eyes. 
pre- 
er  of 
Park, 
3eside 

J  light 
rasped 


L 


Dan 


ire  too 


le 


to  do 

if  yott 
less 

I,  look- 


"The 
bey  those 
of  acting 
0  the  mis- 


tress the  whole  blessed  afternoon.  Several  times  I  came  to  the 
door,  and  it  was  still  talk,  talk,  talk — and  when  my  young  lady 
comes  home  and  the  old  mistress  was  fairly  tired,  and  walked 
oat  to  give  her  tongue  a  rest,  it  was  still  the  same  with  the 
young  one — talk,  talk,  talk,  and  no  end  to  the  talk,  till  you  well 
nigh  fainted  ;  and  if  it  had  not  been  for  God's  Providence  that 
set  you  off  fast  asleep,  you  might  have  died  of  the  talk  fever." 

"  But  I  am  better  now,  Daniel — you  see  the  talking  did  me' 
no  harm,  but  good." 

"  Tout,  tout,  man,  a  bad  excuse,  you  know,  is  better  than 
none  they  say.  But  I  think  it's  far  worse,  for  'tis  generally  an 
invented  lie,  just  to  cheat  the  Devil  or  one's  own  conscience  ; 
howsomever,  I  doubt  much,  whether  the  Devil  was  ever  cheated 
by  such  practices,  but  did  not  always  win  in  the  long  run  by 
that  sort  of  stale  mate." 

"  Are  you  a  chess  player  ?"  I  asked  in  some  surprise. 

"  Ay,  just  in  a  small  way.  Old  Jenkins  the  butler  and  I, 
often  have  a  tuzzle  together  in  his  pantry,  which  sometimes  ends 
in  a  stale  mate — he,  he,  he — Jenkins  who  is  a  dry  stick,  says, 
that  a  stale  mate,  is  better  than  stale  fish,  or  a  glass  of  fiat  cham- 
pagne— he,  he,  he." 

"  I  perfectly  agree  with  Jenkins.  But  don't  you  see,  my  good 
Daniel,  that  you  blame  me  for  talking  with  the  ladies,  and  want- 
ing to  read  a  love-letter  ;  while  you  are  making  me  act  quite  as 
imprudently,  by  laughing  and  talking  with  you." 

"  A  love-letter  did  you  say  ?"  and  he  poked  his  long  nose  nearly 
into  my  face,  and  squinted  down  with  a  glance  of  intense  curiosity 
at  the  open  letter  I  still  held  in  my  hand.  "  Why  that  is  rather 
a  temptation  to  a  young  gentleman,  I  must  own  ;  cannot  I  read 
it  for  you,  sir  ?  I  am  as  good  a  scholar  as  our  clerk." 

"  I  don't  ^nU  doubt  your  capabilities,  Simpson.  But  you 
see,  this  is  a  flP^:  I  really  can  only  do  for  myself.  The  young 
lady  W9uld  not  like  her  letter  to  be  made  public." 

"  Why,  Lord,  sir,  you  don't  imagine  that  I  would  say  a  word 


'  ) 


soo 


THS     UONOTONii. 


about  it.  I  have  kept  secrets  before  now — ay,  and  ladies' 
secrets,  too.  I  was  the  man  that  helped  your  father  to  carry 
off  Miss  Ellen.  It  was  I  held  the  horses  at  the  corner  of  the 
lane,  while  he  took  her  out  of  the  chamber  window.     I  drove 

them  to church  next  morning,  and  waited  at  the  doors  till 

they  were  married  ;  and  your  poor  father  gave  me  five  golden 
guineas  to  drink  the  bride's  health.  Ah  !  she  was  a  bride 
•worth  the  winning — a  prettier  woman  I  never  saw — she  beat 
my  young  lady  hollow — though  some  folks  do  think  Miss  Cathe- 
rine a  beauty." 

"  You  did  not  witness  the  ceremony  ?" 


(( 


No,  sir  ;  but  as  I  sat  on  the  box  of  the  carriage,  I  saw  old 
Parson  Roche  go  up  to  the  aisle  in  his  white  gown,  with  a  book 
in  his  hand,  and  if  it  were  not  to  marry  the  young  folks,  what 
business  had  he  there  ?"  ^ 

"  What,  indeed,"  thought  I.  "  This  man's  evidence  may  be 
of  great  value  to  me." 

I  lay  silent  for  some  minutes  thinking  over  these  circum- 
stances, and  quite  forgot  my  letter  until  reminded  of  it  by  Simpson. 

"Well,  sir,  I'm  thinking  that  I  will  allow  you  to  read  that 
letter ;  if  you  will  just  put  on  my  spectacles  to  protect  your  eyes 
from  the  light." 

"But  I  could  not  see  with  them,  Simpson ;  spectacles,  like 
wives,  seldom  suit  anybody  but  the  persons  to  whom  they 
belong.  Besides,  you  know,  that  old  eyes  and  young  eyes  never 
behold  the  same  objects  alike." 

"Maybe,"  said  the  old  man.  "But  do  just  wait  patiently 
until  I  can  prop  you  up  in  the  be^,  and  put  the  lamp  near 
enough  for  you  to  see  that  small  Writing.  Tzet,  tzet — what  a 
pity  it  is  that  young  ladies,  now-a-days,  are  ashamed  of  writing 
a  good,  legible  hand.  You  will  require  a  douM^pair  of  specs 
to  read  yon."  ^^ 

xbe  old  man's  curiosity  was  almost  as  great  as  his  kindness  ; 
and  I  should  have  felt  annoyed  at  his  peeping  and  prying  over  my 


"...4' 


t  ". 


TUK     MONO  TON  8. 


801 


shoulder,  had  I  not  been  certain  that  he  could  not  decipher,  with- 
out the  aid  of  the  said  spectacles,  a  single  word  of  the  contents. 

I  was  getting  tired  of  his  loquacity,  and  was  at  last  obliged 
to  request  him  to  go,  which  he  did  most  reluctantly,  begging 
me  as  he  left  the  room  to  have  mercy  on  my  poor  eyes. 

There  was  some  need  of  the  caution  ;  the  fever  had  left  me  so 
weak  that  it  was  with  great  di£&culty  I  succeeded  in  reading 
Margaretta's  letter. 


"  Dear  Cousix  Geoffrey  : 

"  We  parted  with  an  assurance  of  mutual  friendship.  I  shall 
not  waste  words  in  apologizing  for  writing  to  you.  As  a  friend 
I  may  continue  to  love  and  value  you,  convinced  that  the  heart 
in  which  I  trust  will  never  condemn  me  for  the  confidence  I 
repose  j|||t. 

"  I  have  suffered  a  severe  affliction  since  you  left  us,  in  the 
death  of  poor  Alice,  which  took  place  a  fortnight  ago.  She 
died  in  a  very  unsatisfactory  frame  of  mind,  anxious  to  the  last 
to  behold  her  unprincipled  husband  or  Dinah  North.  Tho 
latter,  however,  has  disappeared,  and  no  trace  of  her  can  be 
discovered. 

"  There  was  some  secret,  perhaps  the  same  that  you  endea- 
vored so  fruitlessly  to  wrest  from  her,  that  lay  heavily  upon  the 
poor  girl's  conscience,  and  which  she  appeared  eager  to  commu- 
nicate after  the  power  of  utterance  had  fled.  The  repeated 
mention  of  her  brother's  name  during  the  day  which  preceded 
her  dissolution,  led  me  to  the  conclusion  that  whatever  she  had 
to  divulge  waSjponnected  with  him. 

"  But  she  is  gone,  and  the  secret  has  perished  with  her,  a  cir- 
cumstance which  we  may  all  have  cause  to  regret. 

"  And ,  this^  the  first  time,  Geoffrey,  that  I  have  looked 
upon  death — ^M^death  of  one,  whom  from  infancy  I  have  loved 
as  a  sister. 


802 


THB    llONOT<'^a. 


;  4  "  The  sight  has  filled  me  with  awe  and  terror  ;  the  more  so, 
because  I  feel  a  strange  presentiment  that  my  own  end  is  not 
far  distant.  ^i^f^t^irp'--mr'nf\t'-^''9i[tf>!^^'^-  "  ■'■•  ■  ^..  .'V'"'-}  r-' 
^  "  This,  my  dear  coasin,  yon  will  say  is  the  natural  result  of 
watching  the  decay  of  one  so  young  and  beautiful  as  Alice 
Mornington — one,  who,  a  few  brief  months  ago,  was  full  of  life, 
and  health,  and  hope — that  her  death  has  brought  more  forcibly 
before  me  the  prospect  of  my  own  mortality. 

*f  Perhaps  it  is  soJ  I  do  not  wish  to  die,  GeoJBfreyt  life,  for 
me,  nas  many  charnis.  I  love  my  dear  father  tenderly.  To  his 
fond  eyes  I  am  the  light  of  life — the  sole  thing  that  remains  to 
him  of  my  mother.  I  would  live  for  his  sake  to  cherish  and 
comfort  him  in  his  old  age.  I  love  the  dear  old  homestead  with 
all  its  domestic  associations,  and  I  could  not  bid  adieu  to  you, 
my  dear  cousin,  without  keen  regret.  ^^ 

''And  then,  the  glorious  face  of  nature  —  the  nflas,  the 
flowers,  the  glad,  bright  sunbeams,  the  rejoicing  song  of  birds, 
the  voice  of  waters,  the  whispered  melodies  of  wind-stirred 
leaves,  the  green  solitudes  of  the  dim  mysterious  forest,  I  love — 
oh,  how  I  love  them  all  I 

"  Yes,  these  are  dear  to  my  heart  and  memory  ;  yet  I  wan- 
der discontentedly  amid  my  favorite  haunts.  My  eyes  are  ever 
turned  to  the  earth.  A  spirit  seems  to  whisper  to  me  in  low 
tones,  *  Open  thy  arms,  mother,  to  receive  thy  child.' 

"  I  struggle  with  these  waking  phantasies  ;  my  eyes  are  full 
of  tears.  I  feel  the  want  of  companionship.  I  long  for  some 
friendly  bosom  to  share  my  grief  and  wipe  away  my  tears.  The 
sunshine  of  my  heart  has  vanished.  Ah,  my  oHjl^  friend,  how 
earnestly  I  long  for  your  return  I  Do  write,  and  let  us  know 
how  you  have  sped.  My  father  came  back  to  the  Hall  the  day 
after  the  funeral  of  poor  Alice.  He  marvels  like  me  at  your 
long  sileiice.  He  has  important  news  Jp  commanicate  which  I 
most  not  forestall 


V-5'K 


THE    MOH0TON8 


808 


I*' 


^  "  Write, BOon,  and  let  ns  know  that  yon  are  well  and  happy  ; 
A  line  from  you  will  cheer  my  drooping  heart.  '    v 

"  Yours,  in  the  sincerity  of  love,       '  '-- 
"  Maroarkti'a  Moncton.  ^ 

"MwiOKW  Pam,  July  SS,  1&-."  ^,jT,    ,.^   ,^  ,^ 

'  I  read  this  letter  over  several  times,  until  the  characters 
became  misty,  and  I  could  no  longer  form  them  into  words.  A 
thousand  times,  I  pressed  it  to  my  lips  and  vowed  eternal  fidel- 
ity to  the  dear  writer.  Yet — what  a  mournful  tale  it  told. 
The  love  but  half-concealed,  was  apparent  in  every  line.  I  felt 
bitterly,  that  I  was  the  cause  of  her  dejection — that  hopeless 
aflection  for  me  was  undermining  her  health. 

I  would  write  to  her  instantly — would  tell  her  all.  Alas,  my 
hand,  unnerved  by  long  illness,  could  no  longer  guide  the  pen — 
and  biH^  could  I  employ  the  hand  of  another  ?  I  cursed  my 
unlucky  accident,  and  the  unworthy  cause  of  it ;  and  in  order 
to  divert  my  thoughts  from  this  melancholy  subject,  I  eagerly 
tore  open  Sir  Alexander's  letter. 

The  paper  fell  from  my  grasp,  I  was  not  able  to  read. 

Mrs.  Hepburn  appeared  like  a  good  angel,  followed  by  honest 
Dan,  bearing  candles,  and  the  most  refreshing  of  all  viands  to 
an  invalid, — a  delicious  cup  of  fragrant  tea,  the  very  smell 
of  which  was  reviving  ;  and  whilst  deliberately  sipping  the  con- 
tents of  my  second  cup,  I  requested  Mrs.  Hepburn,  as  a  great 
favor,  to  read  to  me  Sir  Alexander's  letter. 

"  Perhaps  it  may  contain  family  secrets  ?"  she  said,  with  au 
inquiring  looj^ta^st  her  hand  rested  rather  tenaciously  upon 
the  closely  wlmen  sheets. 

"  After  the  confidence  which  we  have  mutually  reposed  in 
each  other,  my  dear  Madam,  I  can  have  no  secret  to  conceal. 
You  are  .acqaunted  with  my  private  history,  and  I  flatter  my- 
self, that  neither  you  wr  your  amiable  niece,  are  indiflferent  to 
my  future  Welfare." 


804 


TUK     UONCTONtt. 


"  You  ouly  do  us  justice,  Geoffrey,"  said  the  kind  woman, 
affectionately  pressing  my  hand,  after  readjusting  my  pillows. 
*'  I  love  you  for  your  mother's  sake.  I  prize  you  for  your  own  ; 
and  I  hope  you  will  allow  me  to  consider  you  in  the  light  of 
that  son,  of  whom  Heaven  early  deprived  me." 

"  You  make  a  rich  man  of  me  at  once,"  I  cried,  respectfully 
kissing  her  hand.  How  can  I  be  poor  while  I  possess  so  many 
excellent  friends.  Robert  Moncton,  with  all  his  wealth,  is  a 
beggar,  when  compared  to  the  hiterto  despised  Geoffrey." 

"  Well,  let  us  leave  off  complimenting  each  other,"  said  Mrs. 
Hepburn,  laughing  ;  "  and  please  to  lie  down  like  a  good  boy 
and  compose  yourself,  and  listen  attentively  to  what  your  uncle 
has  to  say  to  you." 


*'  My  Dear  Geoff  : — 


■  l'?r;,^t 


"  What  the  deuce,  man,  has  happened  to  you,  that  we 
have  received  no  tidings  from  you.  Have  you  and  old  Dinah 
eloped  together  on  the  back  of  a  broomstick.  The  old  hag's 
disappearance  looks  rather  suspicious.  Madge  does  little  else 
than  pine  and  fret  for  your  return.  I  begin  to  feel  quite  jealous 
of  you  in  that  quarter. 

"  I  have  a  long  tale  to  tell  you,  and  scarcely  know  where  to 
begin.  Next  to  taking  doctor's  stuff,  I  detest  letter  writing, 
and  were  you  not  a  great  favorite,  the  pens,  ink  and  paper  might 
go  to  the  bottom  of  the  river,  before  I  would  employ  them  to 
communicate  a  single  thought.  , 

"  I  had  a  very  pleasant  journey  to  London,  whiS^h  terminated 
in  a  very  unpleasant  visit  to  your  worthy  uncle.  It  was  not 
without  great  repugnance  that  I  condescended  to  enter  the 
villain's  house,  particularly  when  I  reflected  on  the  errand  which 
took  me  there. 

*'  He  received  me  with  one  of  his  blandest  smiles,''!^^  in^p^i^ed 


f 


■''/ 


THB     MONCTONf. 


805 


after  iny  health  with  such  affectionate  interest,  that  it  would 
have  led  a  stranger  to  imagine  that  he  really  wished  me  well, 
instead  of  occupying  a  snug  corner  in  the  family  vault. 

"  How  1  abhor  this  man's  hypocrisy.  Bad  as  he  is — it  is  the 
very  worst  feature  in  his  character.  I  cut  all  his  compliments 
short,  by  informing  him  that  the  object  of  my  visit  was  one 
of  a  very  unpleasant  nature,  that  required  his  immediate  atten- 
tion. 

"  He  looked  very  cold  and  spiteful. 

"  '  I  anticipate  your  business,'  he  said  :  *  Geoffrey  Moncton,  I 
am  informed,  has  found  an  asylum  with  y^n,  and  I  suppose  you 
are  anxious  to  effect  a  reconciliation  between  us.  If  such  be  the 
purport  of  your  visit.  Sir  Alexander — your  journey  must  prove 
in  vain.  I  never  will  forgive  that  ungrateful  young  man,  nor 
admit  him  agam  into  my  presence.' 

"  '  You  have  injured  him  too  deeply,  Robert,'  I  said,  calmly, 
for  you  know,  Geoff — that  it  is  of  little  use  of  flying  into  a  pas- 
sion with  your  cold-blooded  uncle ;  he  is  not  generous  enough 
to  get  insulted  and  show  fight  like  another  man — 'Geoffrey 
does  not  wish  it,  and  I,  should  scorn  to  ask  it  in  his  name.' 

"  The  man  of  law  looked  incredulous,  but  did  not  choose  to 
venture  a  reply. 

•  " '  It  is  not  of  Geoffrey  Moncton,  the  independent  warm- 
hearted orphan,  I  wished  to  speak — who  thank  God  I  has  pluck 
enough  to  take  his  own  part,  and  speak  for  himself.  It  is  of 
one,  who  is  a  disgrace  to  his  name  and  family.  I  mean  your  son, 
Theophilus.' 

" '  Really,  Sir  Alexander,  you  take  a  great  deal  of  trouble 
about  matters  which  do  not  concern  you'  (he  said  this  with  a 
sarcastic  sneer),  *my  son  is  greatly  indebted  to  you  for  such 
disinterested  kindness.' 

"His  cool  impudence  provoked  me  beyond  endurance — I 
felt  a  wicked  pleasure  in  retaliation,  which  God  forgive  me,  was 


UU6 


TUB    MONCIONS. 


far  from  a  Christian  spirit.    But  I  despised  the  rascal  tuo  much 
at  tiiat  moment  to  pity  him. 

"  *  My  iuterfereuce  in  this  matter  concerns  me  more  nearly  than 
you  imagine,  Mr.  Moncton.  Your  son's  unfortunate  wiic  fit- 
tempted  suicide,  but  was  prevented  in  the  act  of  drowning 
herself  by  the  nephew  you  have  traduced  and  treated  so 
basely.' 

"  *  Damn  her  I  why  did  be  not  let  her  drown  V  thundered 
forth  your  uncle. 

"'Because  his  heart  \  xb  Mot  hurdencd  in  villainy  like  your 
own.  Your  daughter-in  'iw  now  lies  dying  at  ray  house,  and 
1  wish  to  tran.^fer  mh-  responsibility  from  my  hands  into  your 
own.' 

"'It  was  your  fault  that  they  ever  met,' he  cried.  'Your 
love  of  low  society,  that  threw  them  together.  Theophilus  was 
not  a  man  to  make  such  a  fool  of  himself — such  an  infernal 
fool  I' 

"  And  then  the  torrent  burst.  The  man  became  transformed 
into  the  demon.  He  stamped  and  raved — and  tore  his  hair,  and 
cursed,  with  the  most  horrid  and  blasphemous  oaths,  the  son  who 
had  followed  so  closely  in  his  steps.  Such  a  scene  I  never 
before  witnessed — such  a  spectacle  of  human  depravity  may  it 
never  be  my  lot  to  behold  again.  In  the  midst  of  his  incoherent 
ravings,  he  actually  threatened,  as  the  consummation  of  his  in- 
dignation against  his  son,  to  make  you  his  heir. 

"  Such  is  the  contradiction  inherent  in  our  fallen  nature,  that 
13  vrould  exhalt  the  man  he  hates,  to  r«  vengo  himself  upon  the 
noi>  '  '1^  has  givon  the  d'  rth-blow  to  the  selfish  pride  which  has 
iiiarkcu  his  crooked  path  through  life. 

"  I  left  the  man  of  sin  in  deep  disgust.  It  made  me  think  very 
humbly  of  myself.  Faith,  Geoff,  when  I  look  back  on  ray  own 
early  career,  I  begin  to  think  that  we  are  a  vile  bad  set ;  and 
vithoat  yea  and  Madge  raise  the  moral  tone  of  the  family  char- 


THE     M  O  N  0  T  0  N  8 . 


307 


actor  there  is  itnall  chance  of  aiiy  of  the  other  nicmbcrR  finding 
theii*  way  to  h('»i  ven. 

"  I  HjxMit  II  (  luple  of  (juiet  days  with  my  old  friend  Onslow, 
and  thou  couuncncTd  my  journey  home. 

"At  a  small  villaj^c  about  thirty  miles  from  liOndon,  I  won 
overtaken  I>y  such  a  violent  storm  of  thunder  and  rain,  tliat 
1  hfid  to  put  up  at  the  only  inn  in  the  place  for  the  night. 

"  In  the  ptiflSii^o  I  m  accosted  by  an  old  man  of  pleasing 
demeanor,  and  with  somow  it  of  a  foreiffu  aspect,  who  inquired 
if  h«  had  the  honor  of  8p<5alv  -•  tx)  Sir  Alexander  Moncton  ?  I 
said  yes,  but  that  he  hau  the  u.  vantage  of  me,  as  I  believed  him 
to  be  a  perfect  stranger. 

"He  appeared  ei:  arra  ^d,  and  said,  that  he  did  not  wonder 
at  my  forgetting  hiiii,  as  it  .vim  oi  y  in  a  subordinate  situation  1 
had  ever  seen  him,  and  thftt  w;  '^  many  years  ago. 

'  I  now  looked  hard  at  t  -•    man,  and  a  conviction  of  often 


<(  4  n 


((  ( 


•\to  my  mind.     It  was  an  image 
ears  of  folly  and  dissipation. 

Walters,  who  for  such  a  long 

•f  Robert  Moncton.' 

on  my  heel,  '  I  have  no  wish 


haViUg  seen  him  before  flashr 
conn  c'tcd  with  bygone  years 

"  '  Purely  you  are  not  Willi 
time  ^\  as  the  friend  and  confid; 
llie  same,  at  your  service 
Mr.  Walters,'  said  I,  turnii 
to  resurt'o  the  acquaintance.' 

"  '  You  arc  right,'  he  replied,  aui  ^vas  silent  for  a  minute  or 
so,  then  resumed,  in  a  grave  and  himi,>le  tone;  '  Sir  Alexander, 
I  trust  we  are  both  better  men,  or  the  experience  and  sorrows  of 
years  hav  »  been  given  to  us  in  vain.  I  can  truly  say,  that  I 
have  deep.  /  repented  of  ray  former  sinful  life,  and  I  trust  that 
my  repenta  ice  has  been  accepted  by  that  God  before  whom  we 
must  both  .^oon  appear.  Still,  I  cannot  blame  you,  for  wishing 
to  have  no  further  intercourse  with  one  whom  you  only  knew  as 
an  immoral  and  unprincipled  man.  But  for  the  sake  of  a  young 
man,  who,  if  living,  is  a  near  connection  of  yours,  I  beg  you  to 
listen  patiently  to  what  I  have  to  say.' 


308 


THE      MONCTON«l 


"  *  If  your  communication  has  reference  to  Geoffrey,  the  son  of 
Edward  Moncton,  and  nephew  to  Robert,  I  am  entirely  at  your 
service.' 

"  *  He  is  the  man  !  I  have  left  a  comfortable  home  in  the 
United  States,  and  returned  to  England  with  the  sole  object  in 
view,  of  settling  a  moral  debt  which  has  lain  a  long  time  pain- 
fully on  my  conscience.  I  was  just  on  my  way  to  Moncton  Park 
to  speak  to  you  on  this  important  subject.' 

"  My  dear  Geoff,  you  may  imagine  the  feelings  with  which  I 
heard  this  announcement.  Had  I  been  alone,  I  should  have 
snapped  my  fingers,  whistled,  shouted  for  joy — anything  that 
would  have  diminished  with  safety  the  suffocating  feeling  at  my 
heart.  I  was  so  glad — I  never  knew  how  dear  you  were  to  me 
until  then.  So  I  invitsd  the  solemn,  and  rather  puritanical  look- 
ing white-headed  man  to  partake  of  my  dinner,  and  spend  the 
evenijag  in  my  apartment,  in  order  to  get  out  of  him  all  that  I 
could  concerning  you.  The  result  was  most  satisfactory.  There 
was  no  need  of  bribes  or  nut-crackers;  he  was  anxious  to  make 
a  clean  breast  of  it,  for  which  I  gave  him  ample  absolution. 

"  Here  is  his  confession,  as  well  as  I  can  remember  it. 

"  *  My  acquaintance  with  Robert  Moncton  commenced  at 
school.  I  was  the  only  son  of  a  rich  banker  in  the  city  of  Nor- 
wich. My  father  was  generous  to  a  fault,  and  allov/ed  me 
more  pocket-money  than  my  young  companions  could  boast  of 
receiving  from  their  friends  at  home, 

"  *  My  father  had  risen,  by  a  train  of  fortunate  circumstances, 
from  a  very  humble  station  in  life,  and  was  ostentatiously  proud 
of  his  wealth.  He  was  particularly  anxious  for  me  to  pass  for 
the  son  of  a  very  rich  man  at  school,  which  he  fancied  would 
secure  for  me  powerful  friends,  and  their  interest  in  my  journey 
through  life.' 

"  '  I  was  not  at  all  averse  to  his  plans,  which  I  carried  oat  to 
their  fullest  extent,  and  went  by  the  name  of  Ready-Moiuy 
Jack,  among  my  school-mates,  who  I  have  no  doubt  whispered 


rilK     MOXCTONS 


809 


out  to 
■Motley 
lispered 


behind  my  back,  that — fools  and  their  money  are  soon  parted — 
for  you  jjnow,  Sir  Alexander,  this  is  the  way  of  the  world.  And 
there  is  no  place  in  which  the  world  and  its  selfish  maxims  aro 
more  fully  exemplified  than  in  a  large  boardhig-school, 

"  '  1  had  not  been  long  at  school  when  the  two  Monctons  were 
admitted  to  the  same  class  with  myself,  Edward  was  a  dash- 
ing, eloquent,  brave  lad  ;  more  remarkable  for  a  fine  appearance 
and  an  admirable  temper,  than  for  any  particular  talent,  lie 
was  a  very  popular  boy,  but  somehow  or  other  we  did  not  take 
to  each  other. 

"  '  The  boyish  vanity  fostered  by  my  lathcr,  made  me  wish  to 
be  considered  the  first  lad  in  the  school  ;  a  notion  which  Edward 
took  good  care  to  keep  down  ;  and  fretted  and  galled  by  his 
assumption  of  superiority,  I  turned  to  Robert,  who  was  every- 
thing but  friendly  to  Edward,  to  support  my  cause  and  back  me 
in  my  quarrels. 

"  '  Robert  was  a  handsome,  gentlemanly-looking  li>,d,  but  quite 
the  reverse  of  Edward.  He  hated  rough  play,  learned  his 
lessons  with  indefatigable  industry,  and  took  good  care  to  keep 
himself  out  of  harm's  way.  He  was  the  pattern  boy  of  the 
school.    The  favorite  with  all  the  teachers. 

"  '  He  possessed  a  grave,  specious  manner — a  cold  quiet 
dignity,  which  imposed  upon  the  ignorant  and  unsuspecting  ; 
and  his  love  of  money  was  a  passion  that  drew  all  the  blood 
from  his  stern  proud  heart. 

**  *  He  saw  that  I  was  frank  and  vain,  and  he  determined  to 
profit  by  my  weakness.  I  did  not  want  for  natural  capacity, 
but  I  was  a  sad  idler. 

"  '  Robert  was  shrewd  and  persevering,  and  I  paid  him  hand- 
somely for  doing  my  sums  and  writing  my  Latin  exercises.  We 
became  firni  friends,  and  I  loved  him  for  years  with  more 
sincerity  than  he  deserved. 

'"  As  I  advanced  towards  manhood,  my  poor  father  met  with 


M. 


310 


THB    U0N0T0N8 


great  losses  ;  and  on  the  failure  of  a  large  firm  with  which  his 
own  was  principally  connected,  he  became  a  bankrupt. 

" '  Solely  dependent  upon  my  rich  father,  without  any  fixed 
aim  or  object  in  life,  I  had  just  made  a  most  imprudent  marriage, 
when  his  death,  which  happened  almost  immediately  upon  his 
reverse  of  fortune,  awoke  me  to  the  melancholy  reality  that 
stared  me  in  the  face. 

" '  In  my  distress  I  wrote  to  Robert  Moncton,  who  had  just 
commenced  practice  at  his  old  office  in  Hatton  Garden.  He 
answered  my  appeal  to  his  charity  promptly,  and  gave  me  a 
seat  in  his  office  as  engrossing  clerk,  with  a  very  liberal  salary 
which,  I  need  not  assure  you,  was  most  thankfully  accepted  by 
a  person  in  my  reduced  circumstances. 

"  *  This  place  I  filled  entirely  to  his  satisfaction  for  fifteen 
years,  until  I  was  the  father  of  twelve  children. 

"  '  My  salary  was  large,  but,  alas  1  it  was  the  wages  of  sin. 
All  Robert  Moncton's  dirty  work  was  confided  to  my  hands. 
I  was  his  creature — the  companion  of  his  worst  hours — and  he 
paid  me  liberally  for  my  devotion  to  his  interests.  But  for  all 
this,  there  were  moments  in  my  worthless  life — when  better  feel- 
ings prevailed — when  I  loathed  the  degrading  trammels  in 
which  I  was  bound;  and  often,  on  the  bosom  of  a  dear  and 
affectionate  wife,  I  lamented  bitterly  my  fallen  state. 

"  *  About  this  period  Edward  Moncton  died,  and  Robert 
was  appointed  guardian  to  his  orphan  child.  Property  there 
was  none — barely  sufficient  to  pay  the  expenses  of  the  funeral. 
Robert  supplied  from  his  own  purse  £50,  towards  the  support 
of  the  young  widow,  until  she  could  look  about  and  obtain  a 
situation  as  a  day  governess  or  a  teacher  in  a  school,  for  which 
she  was  eminently  qualified, 

" '  I  never  shall  forget  the  unnatural  joy  displayed  by  Robert 
on  this  melancholy  occasion. 

u  <  u  Thank  God  1  William,"  he  said,  clapping  me  on  the 


l! 
I!    it 


THE     MONCTONS. 


811 


shbis 

fixed 
Tiage, 
3n  his 
J  that 

id  just 
1.  He 
)  me  a 
salary 
pted  by 

:  fifteen 

J  of  sin. 
y  hands, 
—and  he 
at  for  all 
itter  feel- 
nmels  in 
dear  and 

i  Robert 
jrty  there 
e  funeral. 
16  support 
obtain  a 
for  which 


shoulder,  after  he  had  read  the  letter  which  poor  Mrs.  Moncton 
wrote  to  inform  him  of  her  sudden  bereavement,  "  Edward  is  dead. 
There  is  only  one  stumbling-block  left  in  my  path,  and  I  will 
soon  kick  that  out  of  the  way." 

" '  Three  months  had  scarcely  elapsed  before  I  went  to 

with  Robert  Moncton,  to  attend  the  funeral  of  his  sister-in-law. 

"  *  The  sight  of  the  fine  boy  that  acted  as  chief  mourner  in  that 
mournful  cereulCny  cut  me  to  the  heart.  I  was  a  father  myself 
— a  fond  father — and  I  longed  to  adopt  the  poor,  friendless 
child.  But  what  could  a  man  do  who  had  a*  dozen  of  his 
own  ? 

"  *  As  we  were  on  our  road  to ,  Robert  had  confided  to 

me  his  plans  for  setting  aside  his  nephew's  claims  to  the  estates 
and  title  of  Moncton,  in  case  you  should  die  without  a  male 
heir.  The  secluded  life  that  Mrs.  Moncton  had  led  since  her 
marriage  ;  her  want  of  relatives  to  interest  themselves  in  her 
behalf,  and  the  dissipated  habits  of  her  husband,  who  had  lost 
all  his  fine  property  at  the  gaming-table,  made  the  scheme  not 
only  feasible,  but  presented  few  obstacles  to  its  accomplishment. 

"  *  Inexpressibly  shocked  at  this  piece  of  daring  villainy,  I 
dissembled  my  indignation,  and  while  I  appeared  to  acquiesce  in 
his  views,  I  secretly  determined  to  befriend,  if  possible,  the 
innocent  child. 

'* '  The  night  prior  to  the  funeral,  he  called  me  into  his  private 
office,  and  after  chatting  over  a  matter  of  little  consequence,  he 
said  to  me  in  a  careless  manner  : — 

"  ' "  By  the  by,  Walters,  Basset  told  me  the  other  day,  that 
you  had  taken  a  craze  to  go  to  America.  This  is  your  wife's 
doings,  I  suppose.  I  don't  suffer  Mrs.  Moncton  to  settle  such 
matters  for  me.     But  is  it  true  ?" 

"  '  I  said  that  it  had  been  on  my  mind  for  a  long  time.  The 
want  of  funds  alone  preventing  me  from  emigrating  with  m/ 
family.' 


312 


THF.     UONCTONS. 


"  ' "  If  that  is  all,  the  want  of  money  need  not  hinder  yon. 
But  mind,  Walters,  I  am  not  generous,  I  expect  something  for 
my  gold.  You  have  been  faithful  to  me,  and  I  am  anxious  to 
show  you  that  I  am  not  insensible  to  your  merit.  We  are  old 
friends,  Walt — we  understand  each  other  ;  we  are  not  troubled 
with  nice  scruples,  and  dare  to  call  things  by  their  right 
names.     But  to  the  point. 

tt  i  "This  boy  of  my  brother's,  as  I  was  telling  you,  is  a  thorn 
in  my  side,  which  you  can  remove." 

"  '  "  In  what  way  ?"  I  said,  in  a  tone  of  alarm. 
"  '  "  Don't  look  blue;"  and  he  laughed.  "  I  kill  with  the  tongue 
and  the  pen,  and  leave  to  fools  the  pistol  and  the  knife.    You 

must  go  to  the  Parish  of among  the  Derby  hills,  where 

Edward  was  married,  and  where  he  resided,  enacting  love  in  a 
cottage,  with  his  pretty,  penniless  bride,  until  after  this  boy, 
Geoffrey,  was  born — and  subtract,  if  possible,  the  leaves  from 
the  church-books  that  contain  these  important  registries.  Do 
this  with  your  usual  address,  and  I  will  meet  all  the  expenses  of 
your  intended  emigration." 

"  *  The  offer  was  tempting  to  a  poor  man,  but  I  still  hesitated, 
conjuring  up  a  thousand  difficulties  which  either  awoke  his  mirth 
or  scorn. 

«  «  « rpjjg  Qj^jy  difficulty  that  I  can  find  in  the  business,"  he  said, 
"is  your  unwillingness  to  undertake  it.  The  miserable  old 
wretch  employed  as  clerk  in  the  church,  is  quite  superannuated. 
A  small  bribe  will  win  him  to  your  purpose,  especially  as  Mr. 
Roche,  the  incumbent,  is  just  now  at  the  sea-side,  whither  he  is 
gone  in  the  delusive  hope  of  curing  old  age.  Possessed  of  these 
registers,  I  will  defy  the  boy  to  substantiate  his  claims,  pro- 
vided that  he  lives  to  be  a  man,  for  I  have  carefully  destroyed 
all  the  other  documents  which  could  lead  to  prove  the  legality 
of  his  title.  The  old  gardener  and  his  nurse  must  be  persuaded 
to  accompany  you  to  America.    Old  Roche  is  on  his  last  legs — 


t 


t 
tJ 


THE     MONCTON  S. 


813 


)ngue 
Yoa 
(vhere 
a  iu  a 
;  boy, 
5  from 
1.    Do 
uses  of 

itated, 
5  mirth 

le  said, 
ble  old 
uated. 
as  Mr. 
er  he  is 
of  these 
as,  pro- 
stroyed 
legality 
rsuaded 
t  legs— 


from  him  I  shall  soon  have  nothing  to  fear.  What  do  you  say 
to  my  proposal — yes  or  no  ?" 

"  '  "  Yes,"  I  stammered  out,  "  I  will  undertake  it,  as  it  is  to  be 
the  last  affair  of  the  kind  in  which  I  mean  to  engage.'' 

"  ' "  You  will  forget  it,"  said  he,  "  before  you  have  half  crossed 
the  Atlantic,  and  can  begin  the  world  with  a  new  character.  I 
will  give  you  five  hundred  pounds  to  commence  with." 

"  *  This  iniquitous  bargain  concluded,  1  went  down  the  day 

after  the  funeral  to  ,  on  my  honorable  mission.     As  my 

employer  anticipated,  a  few  shillings  to  the  old  clerk  placed  the 
church-books  at  my  disposal,  from  which  I  carefully  cut  the 
leaves  (which,  in  that  quiet,  out-of-the-way  hamlet,  were  not 
likely  to  be  missed)  that  contained  the  registries.  In  a  small 
hut  among  the  hills  I  found  the  old  gardener  and  his  widowed 
daughter,  who  had  been  nurse  to  Geoffrey  and  his  mother,  whom 
I  talked  into  a  fever  of  enthusiasm  about  America,  and  the 
happy  life  that  people  led  there,  which  ended  in  my  engaging 
them  to  accompany  me.  Good  and  valuable  servants  they  both 
proved.    They  are  since  dead.' 

"  *  And  what  became  of  the  registries  ?  Did  you  destroy  them  V 

"  '  I  tried  to  do  it,  Sir  Alexander,  but  it  seemed  as  if  an  angel 
stayed  my  hand,  and  yielding  to  my  impressions  at  the  moment, 
I  placed  them  carefully  among  my  private  papers,  Here  they 
are  ;'  and  taking  from  his  breast-pocket  an  old-fashioned  black 
leathern  wallet,  he  placed  them  in  my  hand. 

"  *  Here,  too,'  he  said,  '  is  an  affidavit,  made  by  Michael 
Alzure  on  his  dying  bed,  before  competent  witnesses,  declaring 
that  he  was  present  with  his  daughter  Mary,  when  the  ceremony 
took  place.' 

"  '  This  is  enough,'  said  I,  joyfully,  and  shaking  the  old  sinner 
heartily  by  the  hand.  'The  king  shall  have  his  own  again. 
But  how  did  you  hoodwink  that  sagacious  hawk,  Robert 
Moncton?' 

14 


314 


THU     MUNCTONS. 


"  '  He  wfcs  from  home  when  1  returned  to  London,  attending 
the  assizes  at  Bury.  I  found  a  letter  from  him  containing  a 
draft  upon  his  banker  for  five  hundred  pounds,  and  requesting 
me  to  deposit  the  papers  in  the  iron  chest  in  the  garret  of  which 
I  had  the  key.  I  wrote  in  reply,  that  I  had  done  so,  and  he 
was  perfectly  satisfied  with  my  sincerity,  which  during  fifteen 
years  I  had  never  given  him  the  least  cause  to  doubt. 

"  *  The  next  week,  I  sailed  for  the  United  States  with  my 
family,  determined,  from  henceforth,  to  drop  all  connection  with 
Robert  Moncton,  and  to  endeavor  to  obtain  an  honest  living. 

"  *  It  has  pleased  God  to  bless  all  my  undertakings — I  am  now 
a  rich  and  prosperous  man — my  children  are  married  and  settled 
on  good  farms,  in  the  same  neighborhood,  and  enjoying  the  com- 
mon comforts  and  many  of  the  luxuries  of  life.  Still,  that  little 
orphan  boy  haunted  me — I  could  not  be  happy  while  I  knew 
that  I  had  been  the  means  of  doing  him  a  foul  injury,  and  I 
determined,  as  soon  as  I  knew  that  the  lad  must  be  of  age,  to 
make  a  voyage  to  England,  and  place  in  your  hands  the  proofs 
I  held  of  his  legitimacy. 

"  *  Your  powerful  assistance.  Sir  Alexander,  and  these  papers, 
will  I  trust  restore  to  him  his  lawful  place  in  society,  and  I  am 
here  to  witness  against  Robert  Monctou's  villainy.' 

"Well,  Sir  Geoffrey  Moncton,  that  will  be,  what  do  you 
say  to  your  old  uncle's  budget  ?  Is  not  this  news  worth  the 
postage  ?  Worth  throwing  up  one's  cap  and  crying  hurrah — 
and  better  still,  dropping  down  upon  you-r  knees  in  the  solitude 
of  your  own  chamber,  and  whispering  in  your  clasped  hands, 
'Thank  God  for  all  his  mercies  to  me,  a  sinner?'  If  you  omit 
the  prayer,  I  have  not  omitted  it  for  you,  for  most  fervently  I 
blessed  the  Almighty  Father  for  this  signal  instance  of  his 
love. 

"  I  returned  to  the  Park,  so  elated  with  the  result  of  my 
journey,  that  I  could  scarcely  sympathize  in  the  grief  of  my 


f(J 


I 

tbi 


res 
nes 
inci 
but 


i 


1^ 


THE     MONCTONS. 


815 


ling 

ttga 

iting 

rhich 

.d  be 

ifteen 

h  my 
1  with 

ng. 

ra  now 
settled 
le  com- 
it  little 
1  knew 
j^  and  I 
age,  to 
J  proofs 

s  papers, 
nd  I  am 

do  you 

lortb  the 

lurrah — 

solitude 

pd  hauds, 

you  omit 

ji'veutly  1 

of   liis 

|ult  of  my 
Irief  of  my 


poor  girl,  for  the  death  of  her  foster-sister,  which  took  place 
during  my  absence. 

"  Old  Dinah  is  off.  Perhaps  gone  somewhat  before  her  time 
to  her  appointed  place. 

"  It  is  useless  your  remaining  longer  in  Derbyshire,  as  we 
already  possess  all  you  want  to  know,  and  you  must  lose  no 
time  in  commencing  a  suit  against  your  uncle  for  conspiracy  in 
order  to  defraud  you  out  of  your  rights.  Robert's  character 
will  never  stand  the  test  of  this  infamous  exposure. 

"  My  sweet  Madge  looks  ill  and  delicate,  and  like  the  old 

father,  pines  to  see  you  again.    You  young  scamp — you  have 

taken  a  strange  hold  on  the  heart  of  your  attached  kinsman  and 

faithful  friend, 

"Alexander  Moncton." 

I  made  my  kind  friend,  Mrs.  Hepburn,  read  over  this  import- 
ant letter  twice.  It  was  the  longest,  I  verily  believe,  that  the 
worthy  scribe  ever  penned  in  his  life,  and  which  nothing  but  his 
affection  for  me,  could  have  induced  him  to  write. 

**  God  bless  him  !"  I  cried  fervently,  "  how  I  long  to  see  him 
again,  and  thank  him  from  my  very  heart,  for  all  he  has  done 
for  me." 

I  was  so  elated,  that  I  wanted  to  leave  my  bed  instantly  and 
commence  my  journey  to  the  Park. 

This  was  but  a  momentary  delusion — I  was  too  weak,  when 
I  made  the  trial,  to  sit  upright,  or  even  to  hold  a  pen,  which  was 
the  most  provoking  of  the  two. 

Mrs.  Hepburn,  at  my  earnest  solicitation,  wrote  to  Sir  Alex- 
ander, a  long  and  circumstantial  account  of  all  that  had  befallen 
me  since  I  left  Moncton. 

That  night  was  full  of  restless  tossings  to  and  fro,  I  sought 
rest,  but  found  it  not ;  nay,  I  could  not  even  think  with  calm- 
ness, and  the  result  was  as  might  have  been  expected,  a  great 
increase  of  fever,  and  for  several  days  I  was  not  only  worse, 
but  in  considerable  danger. 


816 


THB     MONnTONS. 


Nothing  could  be  more  tantalizing  than  this  provoking  relapse. 
A  miserable  presentiment  of  evil  clouded  my  mind — my  anxiety 
to  write  to  Margaretta  was  painfully  intense,  and  this  was  a 
species  of  communication  which  I  could  not  very  well  convey 
through  another. 

To  this  unfortunate  delay,  I  have  attributed  much  of  the  sor- 
rows of  after  years. 

Our  will  is  free  to  plan.  Our  opportunities  of  action  are  in 
the  hands  of  God — what  I  most  ardently  desired  to  do  I  was 
prevented  from  doing  by  physical  weakness.  How,  then,  can 
any  man  affirm  that  his  destiny  is  in  his  own  hands,  when  cir- 
cumstances form  a  chain  around  him,  as  strong  as  fate,  and  the 
mind  battles  in  vain  against  a  host  of  trifles,  despicable  enougli 
when  viewed  singly,  but  when  taken  in  combination,  possessing 
gigantic  strength  ?  ' 

Another  painful  week  wore  slowly  away,  at  the  end  of  which 
I  was  able  to  sit  up  in  a  loose  dressing-gown  for  several  hours 
during  the  day. 

I  lost  not  a  moment  in  writing  to  Margaretta  directly  I  was 
able  to  hold  a  pen.  I  informed  her  of  all  that  had  passed 
between  me  and  Catherine,  and  laid  open  my  whole  heart  to  her, 
without  the  least  reserve.  Deeming  myself  unworthy  of  her 
lovC;  1  left  all  to  her  generosity.  I  dispatched  my  letter  with  a 
thousand  uncomfortable  misgivings  as  to  what  effect  it  might 
produce  upon  the  sensitive  mind  of  my  little  cousin. 

To  write  a  long  letter  to  George  Harrison  was  the  next  duty 
I  had  to  perform  ;  but  when  I  reflected  on  the  delight  which  my 
communication  could  not  fail  to  convey,  this  was  not  only  au 
easy,  but  a  delightful  task. 

I  had  already  arrived  at  the  second  closely  written  sheet,  when 
a  light  tap  at  the  door  of  the  room  announced  the  presence  of 
Kate  Lee. 

"  What,  busy  writing  still,  Geoffrey  ?  What  will  honest  Dan 
say  to  this  rebellious  conduct  on  the  part  of  his  patient  ?  You 


# 


th 
reJ 
thi 
te^ 

Pc 

the 

0\ 

sitj 


THE    HONCTONS. 


317 


most  lay  aside  pens  and  paper  for  this  day.  Your  face  is  flushed 
and  ''  ^rish.  Don't  shako  your  head,  my  word  is  despotic  in 
this  house — I  must  be  obeyed," 

"  Wait  a  few  minutes,  dear  Miss  Lee,  and  your  will  shall  be 
absolute.  It  was  because  I  am  writing  of  you,  that  my  letter 
has  run  to  such  an  unconscionable  length." 

"  Of  me,  Geoffrey  ?" 

"  Yes,  of  you,  my  charming  friend." 

"  Nay,  you  are  joking,  Mr.  Moncton.  You  would  never  dis- 
tress me,  by  writing  of  me  to  strangers  ?" 

*'  Strangers — oh  no — but  this  is  to  one  who  is  most  dear  to 
us  both." 

Catherine  turned  very  pale. 

"  Geoffrey,  I  hope  that  you  have  not  said  anything  that  I 
could  wish  unsaid  ?" 

"  Do  not  look  like  a  scared  dove,  sweet  Kate.  Have  a  little 
patience,  and  you  shall  read  the  letter." 

*'  That  is  asking  too  much  ;  I  will  trust  to  your  honor — that 
innate  sense  of  delicacy  which  I  know  you  possess." 

"  You  shall  read  the  letter — I  insist  upon  it.  If  you  do  not 
like  it,  I  will  write  another.  But  you  must  sit  down  by  me  and 
listen  to  what  I  have  to  tell  you,  of  my  poor  friend's  his- 
tory." 

She  turned  her  glistening  eyes  upon  me,  full  of  grateful 
thanks,  and  seated  herself  beside  me  on  the  couch.  I  tlien 
recounted  to  her  the  history  that  George  had  confided  to  me, 
though  the  narration  was  often  interrupted  by  the  sighs  and 
tears  of  my  attentive  auditor. 

After  the  melancholy  tale  was  told,  a  long  silence  ensued. 
Poor  Kate  was  too  busy  with  her  own  thoughts  to  speak.  I  put 
the  letter  I  had  been  writing  into  her  hands,  and  retired  to  my 
own  chamber,  which  opened  into  the  one  in  which  we  were 
sitting,  whilst  she  perused  it.     It  was  a  simple  statement  of  the 


■n 


!!■ 


I   : 


I 


318 


TH  B     MO  NGTO  N  S. 


facts  related  above.    I  had  left  him  to  draw  from  them  what 
inference  he  pleased. 

When  I  returned  an  hour  after  to  the  sitting-room,  which  had 
been  fitted  up  as  such  entirely  for  my  accommodation,  the  win- 
dows opening  into  a  balcony  that  ran  along  the  whole  front  of 
the  house,  I  found  Kate  leaning  upon  the  railing,  with  the  open 
letter  still  in  her  hand. 

Her  fine  eyes  were  raised  and  full  of  tears,  but  she  looked 
serene  and  happy,  her  beautiful  face  reminding  me  of  an  April 
sun  just  emerging  from  a  soft  ilcecy  cloud,  which  dimmed, 
only  to  increase  by  softening,  the  glory  wliich  it  could  not 
conceal. 

"Weil,  dear  Kate,  may  I  finish  my  letter  to  George — for  I 
must  call  him  so  still  V 

"  No." 

"  Why  not,"  I  said,  surprised,  and  half  angiy. 

"  Because  I  mean  to  finish  it  myself — will  you  give  me  per- 
mission ?" 

"  By  all  means  :  it  will  make  him  so  happy." 

"  And  you  are  not  jealous  ?"  And  as  she  said  this,  she  bent 
upon  me  a  curious  and  searching  glance. 

"  Not  now  ;  a  few  weeks  ago  I  should  have  been.  To  tell 
you  the  truth,  dear  Kate,  I  am  too  egotistical  a  fellow  to  love 
one  who  does  not  love  me.  I  truly  rejoice  in  the  anticipated 
happiness  of  my  friend." 

Methought  she  looked  a  little  disappointed,  but  recovering 
herself,  she  added  quickly — 

"  This  is  as  it  should  be,  yet  I  must  own  that  my  woman's 
vanity  is  a  little  hurt  at  the  coolness  of  your  philosophy.  We 
all  love  power,  Geoffrey,  and  do  not  like  to  lose  it.  Yet  I  am 
sincerely  glad  that  you  have  conquered  an  attachment  which 
would  have  rendered  us  both  miserable.  No  fear  of  a  broken 
heart  in  your  case." 


THB     MOKurO.fl. 


819 


"  Sach  thioprs  ha  .•wi,  at.  «i»ay  b»  gain,  Kate,  bat  I  believe 
them  to  belong  ruo  to  the  ooetry  than  the  reality  of  life. 
Hearts  are  made  '  i  lough  i materials.  They  don't  choose  to 
break  in  the  right  piuoe,  aud  just  when  and  where  we  want 
them." 

She  laughed,  and  asked  when  I  thought  I  shovld  be  able  to 
commence  my  journey  to  Moucton  Park  1 

"  In  a  few  days  I  hope,  I  feel  growing  better  every  hour  ; 
my  mind  recovers  elasticity  with  returning  strength.  But  how 
I  shall  ever  repay  you,  dear  Miss  Lee,  and  your  excellent  aunt, 
for  your  care  and  kindness,  puzzles  me.' 

"  Geoffrey,  your  accident  has  been  productive  of  great  good 
to  us  all,  so  say  no  more  about  it.  I,  for  one,  consider  myself  in 
your  debt.  You  have  made  two  friends,  whom  a  cruel  destiny 
had  separated,  most  happy." 


((       ;, 


!•,  'ift 


I 


.'1  f* 

320 

» . 


TBI    MON  OTON ■. 


»  ■  • 


♦  r'-i  5  ^' 


■  1  • ''j 


CHAPTER    XXIX. 

A  WILOOMB  AND  AN   UNWELCOME   HEEHNU.  '   ' 

Three  days  had  scarcely  elapsed,  when  I  found  myself  mounted 
on  my  good  steed,  and  gaily  trotting  along  the  road  on  my  way 
to  Moncton  Park. 

Honest  Dan  Simpson  insisted  on  being  my  companion  for  the 
first  stage.  "Just,"  he  said,  "  to  take  care  of  me,  and  see  how 
I  got  along.*'  I  coald  gladly  have  dispensed  with  his  company, 
for  I  longed  to  be  alone — but  to  hurt  the  good  fellow's  feelings, 
would  have  been  the  height  of  ingratitude.  ;f^, 

He  had  indignantly  rejected  the  ample  remuneration  which 
Sir  Alexander  had  remitted  for  his  services. 

"  I  took  care  of  you  for  love,  Sir.  It  was  no  trouble,  but  a 
pleasure.  As  to  money — I  don't  want  it,  I  have  saved  a  good 
pile  for  old  age,  and  have  neither  wife  nor  child  to  give  it  to 
when  I  die.  Lord,  sir,  I  was  afraid  that  you  would  take  it  ill, 
or  I  was  going  to  ask  you  if  you  wanted  any.  I  should  have 
been  proud  to  accommodate  you,  until  you  had  plenty  of  your 
own." 

I  could  have  hugged  the  dear  old  man  in  my  arms.  Fortun- 
ately my  being  on  horseback  prevented  such  .an  excess.  I 
turned  to  him  to  speak  my  thanks,  but  a  choking  in  my  throat 
prevented  my  uttering  a  word.  He  caught  the  glance  of  my 
moist  eye,  and  dashed  the  dew,  with  his  hard  hand,  from  his 
own. 

"  I  know  what  you  would  say,  Mr.  Geoffrey.  But  you  need 
not  say  it.    It  would  only  make  me  feel  bad." 


rilB    MONCTONB. 


821 


»od 

,  to 

ill. 


iroat 

|>f  my 
bis 


need 


**  I  shall  never  forget  you  kin.lnoss,  Dan.  But  will  ulwayg 
reckon  you  among  my  best  friends." 

'*  That's  enough,  sir — I'm  satisfied,  overpaid,"  and  the  true- 
hearted  fellow  rodo  close  up  to  mo  and  held  out  his  hand.  I 
shook  it  warmly.  lie  turned  his  horse  (juickly  round,  and 
the  sharp  ringing  of  his  hoofs  oa  the  rocky  road  told  uu  that 
he  was  gone. 

I  rode  slowly  on  ;  the  day  was  oppressively  warm,  not  u  breath 
of  air  stirred  the  bushes  by  the  road-side,  or  shook  the  dust 
from  the  tawny  leaves  which  already  had  lost  their  tender  green, 
and  were  embrowned  beneath  the  hot  gazo  of  the  August  noon- 
day sun. 

Overcome  by  the  heat,  and  languid  from  my  long  confine- 
ment to  a  sick  room,  I  often  checked  my  horse  and  sauntered 
slowly  alons^,  keeping  the  shady  side  of  the  road,  and  envying 
the  cattle  in  the  meadows  standing  mid  leg  in  the  shallow 
streams. 

"  There  will  surely  be  a  storm  before  night,"  I  said,  looking 
wistfully  up  to  the  cloudless  sky,  which  very  much  resembled 
Job's  description  of  a  molten  looking-glass.  "  I  feel  the  breath 
of  the  tempest  in  this  scorching  air.  A  little  rain  would  lay 
the  dust,  and  render  to-morrow's  journey  less  fatiguing." 

My  soliloquy  was  interrupted  by  the  sharp  click  of  a  horse's 
hoofs  behind  me,  and  presently  his  rider  passed  me  at  full  speed. 
A  transient  glance  at  the  stranger's  face  made  mo  suddenly 
recoil. 

It  was  Robert  Moncton. 

He  looked  pale  and  haggard,  and  his  countenance  wore  an 
unusual  appearance  of  anxiety  and  care.  He  did  not  notice  me, 
and  checking  my  horse,  I  felt  relieved  when  a  turning  in  the 
road  hid  him  from  my  sight. 

His  presence  appeared  like  a  bad  omen.  A  heavy  gloom 
sunk  upon  my  spirits,  and  I  felt  half  inclined  to  halt  at  the 


^-22 


o;s: 


TUK     MONCTUXg. 


i  l| 


small  Tillage  I  was  approachlDg  and  rest  until  the  heat  of  the 
day  had  subsided,  and  I  could  resume  my  journey  in  the  cool  of 
the  evening.  ,  v?    .     , 

Ashamed  of  such  weakness,  I  resolutely  turned  my  face  from 
every  house  of  entertainment  1  passed,  and  had  nearly  cleared 
the  long  straggling  line  of  picturesque  white-washed  cottages, 
which  composed  the  larger  portion  of  the  village,  when  the  figure 
of  a  gentleman  pacing  to  and  fro,  in  front  of  a  decent-looking 
inn,  arrested  my  attention.  There  was  something  in  the  air  and 
manner  of  this  person,  which  appeared  familiar  to  me.  He 
raised  his  head  as  I  rode  up  to  the  door.  The  recognition  was 
mutual.  ,.,  ;,, 

"  Geoffrey  Moncton  I" 

"  George  Harrison  !  Who  would  have  thought  of  meeting 
you  in  this  out  of  the  way  place  ?" 

"  There  is  an  old  saying,  Geoffrey — talk  of  the  Devil  and  he 
is  sure  to  appear.  I  was  thinking  of  you  at  the  very  moment, 
and  raising  my  eyes  saw  you  before  me." 

"Ay,  that  is  one  of  the  mysteries  of  mind,  which  has  still 
to  be  solved,"  said  I,  as  I  dismounted  from  my  horse  and  fol- 
lowed George  into  the  house.  "  I  am  so  heartily  glad  to  see 
you  old  fellow,"  I  cried,  embracing  him  warmly,  directly  we 
were  alone — I  have  a  thousand  things  to  say  to  you,  which  could 
not  be  crowded  into  the  short  compass  of  a  letter." 

"  Hush — don't  speak  so  loud,"  and  he  glanced  suspiciously 
round.  "  These  walls  may  have  ears.  I  know,  that  they  con- 
tain one,  whom  you  would  not  much  like  to  trust  with  your 
secrets." 

"How — Is  A«  here?"  .    ,  ,„; 

"  You  know  whom  I  mean  ?"  ,.;     -, 

"  Robert  Moncton  ?     He  passed  me  on  the  road.*'       « 
-    "  Did  he  recognize  you  ?" 

**  I  think  not.     His  hat  was  slouched  over  his  forehead  ;  his 


THE     U0M0T0N8 


823 


eyes  bent  moodily  on  the  groand.  Besides,  George,  I  am  so 
greatly  altered  by  my  long  illness  ;  I  am  surprised  that  yoa 
knew  me  again." 

"  Love  and  hatred,  are  great  sharpeners  of  the  memory.  It 
is  as  hard  to  forget  an  enemy  as  a  friend.  But  to  tell  you  the 
truth,  GeoflF,  I  had  to  look  at  you  twice  before  I  knew  who  you 
were.  But  come  up  stairs — I  have  a  nice  snug  room,  where 
we  can  chat  in  private  whilst  dinner  is  preparing." 

"  I  should  like  to  know  what  brings  Robert  Moncton  this 
road," — and  I  flung  my  weary  length  upon  a  crazy  old  sofa,  that 
occupied  a  place  in  the  room  more  for  ornament  than  use,  and 
whose  gay  chintz  cover,  like  charity,  hid  a  multitude  of  defects. 
"No  good  I  fear." 

"  I  cannot  exactly  tell.  There  is  some  new  scheme  in  the 
wind.  Harry  Bell,  who  fills  my  old  place  in  his  office,  informed 
me  that  a  partial  reconciliation  had  taken  place  between  father 
and  son.  This  was  by  letter,  for  no  personal  interview  had 
brought  them  together.  Theophilus  was  on  his  way  to  Monc- 
ton, and  appointed  the  old  rascal  to  meet  him  somewhere  on  the 
road.  What  the  object  of  their  meeting  may  be,  time  alone  can 
discover.  Perhaps,  to  discover  Dinah  North's  place  of  conceal- 
ment, or  to  ascertain  if  the  old  hag  be  dead.  Her  secresy  on 
some  points  of  their  history  is  a  matter  of  great  moment.    ■■ 

"  They  are  a  pair  of  precious  scoundrels,  and  their  confeder- 
ation portends  little  good  to  me." 

"  You  need  not  care  a  rush  for  them  now,  GeoflFrey,  you  are 
beyond  the  reach  of  their  malice.  Moncton  is  not  aware  of 
the  return  of  Walters.  This  circumstance  will  be  a  death-blow 
to  his  ambitious  hopes.  How  devoutly  they  must  have  wished 
you  in  Heaven  during  your  illness." 

"  At  one  time,  I  almost  wished  myself  there." 

*'  You  were  not  too  ill  to  forget  your  friend,  Geoffrey,"  and 
be  rose  and  pressed  my  hand  warmly 'between  his  own.    "  How 


324 


THE     UONOTONS. 


can  I  thank  you  safiQciently  for  yon  diRinterestcd  kindness.  By 
your  generous  sacrifice  of  self  you  have  made  me  the  happiest 
of  men.  I  am  now  on  my  way  to  Elm  Grove  to  meet  one, 
whom  I  never  hoped  to  meet  in  this  world  again." 

"  Say  nothing  about  it,  George.  The  sacrifice  may  be  less 
disinterested  than  you  imagine — I  no  longer  regret  it,  and  am 
heartily  glad  that  I  have  been  instrumeutal  to  this  joyful  change 
in  your  prospects." 

"  But  why,  my  good  fellow,  did  you  conceal  from  me  the  name 
of  the  beloved.  Had  you  candidly  told  me  who  the  lady  was, 
I  should  not  have  wounded  by  my  coldness  a  dear  and  faithful 
heart." 

"  Your  mind  was  so  occupied  by  the  image. of  Kate  Lee — I 
dared  not." 

"  It  would  have  saved  me  a  deal  of  misery." 

"  And  destroyed  our  friendship." 

"  You  don't  know  me,  George;  honesty  would  have  been  the 
best  policy,  as  it  always  is,  in  all  cases.  I  could  have  given  up 
Kate  when  I  knew  that  she  loved,  and  was  beloved  by,  my 
friend.  Your  want  of  candor  and  confidence  mav  have  been 
the  means  of  destroying  Margaretta  Moncton." 

"  Do  not  look  so  dreadfully  severe,  Geoffrey.  I  admit  that 
truth  is  the  best  guide  of  all  our  actions.  It  was  my  love  for 
you,  however,  which  led  me  to. disguise  the  name  of  Catherine 
Lee.  You  don't  know  what  a  jealous  fellow  you  are,  and,  at 
that  time,  you  were  too  much  excited  and  too  ill  to  hear  the 
truth.  What  I  did  for  the  best  has  turned  out,  as  it  sometimes 
does,  quite  contrary  to  my  wishes.  You  must  forgive  me, 
Geoffrey.  It  is  the  first  time  I  ever  deceived  you,  and  it  will  be 
the  last." 

He  took  my  hand  and  looked  earnestly  into  ray  face,  with 
those  mild,  melancholy  eyes.  To  be  angry  long  with  him  was 
impossible.    It  was  far  more  easy  to  be  angry  with  myself  ;  so. 


( 
c 

y 

I 


ai 
he 
sp 


yo 
to 


THE     MONOTONS. 


325 


lat 


at 


les 


be 


rith 
ras 
so. 


I  told  him  that  I  forgave  him  from  my  very  heart,  and  would 
no  longer  harbor  against  him  an  unkind  thought. 

I  was  still  far  from  well,  low-spirited  and  out  of  humor  with 
myself  and  the  whole  world.  I  felt  depressed  with  the  myste- 
rious and  unaccountable  dejection  of  mind,  which  often  precedes 
some  unlooked-for  calamity. 

In  vain  were  all  my  efforts  to  rouse  myself  from  this  morbid 
lethargy.  The  dark  cloud  that  weighed  down  my  spirits  would 
not  be  dispelled.  I  strove  to  be  gay ;  the  laugh  died  upon  my 
lips  or  was  choked  by  involuntary  sighs.  George,  who  was 
anxiously  watching  my  countenance,  rose  and  walked  to  the 
window — and,  tired  of  my  uneasy  position  on  the  hard,  crazy, 
old  sofa — and  willing  to  turn  the  current  of  my  thoughts  from 
flowing  in  such  a  turbid  bed — I  followed  his  example. 

We  stood  for  a  while  in  silence,  watching  the  groups  which 
occasionally  gathered  beneath  the  archway  of  the  little  inn,  to 
discuss  the  news  of  the  village. 

"You  are  not  well,  Geoffrey.  Your  journey  has  fatigued 
you.     Lie  down  and  rest  for  a  few  hours." 

"  Sleep  is  out  of  the  question,  in  my  present  feverish  state. 
I  will  resume  my  journey." 

"  What,  in  the  face  of  the  storm  that  is  rapidly  gathering  I 
Do  you  see  that  heavy  cloud  in  the  northwest  V 

"  I  am  not  afraid  of  thunder." 

"  It  has  a  particular  effect  upon  some  people.  It  gives  me 
an  intolerable  headache,  hours  before  it  is  even  apparent  in  the 
heavens.  To  this  cause  I  attribute  your  sudden  depression  of 
spirits," 

I  shook  my  head  sceptically. 

"  Then,  do  tell  me,  dear  Geoff,  what  it  is  that  disturbs 
you  ?" 

"  My  own  thoughts.  Do  not  laugh,  George.  These  things 
to  the  sufferer  are  terrible  realities.    I  am  oppressed  by  melan- 


S*vl 


4. 

'^4 


326 


THE     MONOTONS. 


choly  anticipations  of  evil.  A  painful  consciousness  of  approach- 
ing sorrow."  I  have  experienced  this  often  before,  but  never 
to  such  an  extent  as  to-day.  Let  me  have  my  own  way.  It  ig 
good  for  me  to  combat  with  the  evil  genius  alone."  ■    . 

"  I  think  not.  Duty  compels  us  to  combat  with  such  feelings. 
The  indulgence  of  them  tends  to  shake  our  reliance  on  the 
mercy  of  God,  and  to  render  us  unhappy  and  discontented." 

"  This  is  one  of  the  mysteries  of  mind  which  we  cannot  com- 
prehend. The  links  which  unite  the  visible  with  the  invisible 
world.  But  whether  they  have  their  origin  from  above  or 
beneath  i§,  to  me,  very  doubtful — unless  such  presentiments  ope- 
rate as  a  warning  to  shun  impending  danger.  ^ 

"  I  hear  no  admonitory  voice  within.  All  is  dark,  still  and 
heavy,  like  the  black  calm  that  slumbers  in  the  dense  folds 
of  yon  thunder-cloud ;  as  if  the  mind  was  suddenly  deprived  of 
all  vital  energy,  and  crouched  beneath  an  overwhelming  con- 
sciousness of  horror." 

G  eorge  gave  me  a  sudden  sidelong  scrutinizing  glance,  as  if 
he  suspected  my  recent  accident  had  impaired  my  reason. 

A  vivid  flash  of  lightning,  followed  by  a  sudden  crash  of  thun- 
der, made  us  start  some  paces  back  from  the  window,  and  a 
horseman  dashed  at  full  speed  into  the  inn  yard. 

Another  blinding  flash — another  roar  of  thunder,  which 
seemed  to  fill  the  whole  earth  and  heavens,  made  me  involun- 
tarily close  my  eyes,  when  an  exclamation  from  George —  "Good 
heavens,  what  an  escape  1" — made  me  as  quickly  hurry  to  the 
window. 

The  lightning  had  struck  down  the  horse  and  rider  whom  we 
had  before  observed.    The  nobler  animal  alone  was  slain. 

The  avenging  bolt  of  heaven  had  passed  over  and  left  the 
head  of  the  miscreant,  Theophilus  Moncton,  unscathed. 

Livid  with  recent  .terror,  and  not  over-pleased  with  the  loss 
of  the  fine  animal  at  his  feet,  he  cast  a  menacing  glance  at  the 


THE     HON  CT0N8 


327 


if 


we 

the 

loss 
the 


lowering  sky  above,  and  bidding  the  ostler  with  an  oath /(which 
sonnded  like  double  blasphemy  in  our  ears)  to  take  care  of  the 
saddle  and  bridle,  he  entered  the  inn,  shaking  the  mud  and  rain 
from  his  garments,  and  muttering  indistinct  curses  on  his  ill- 
luck. 

"  The  blasphemous  wretch  I"  I  cried,  drawing  a  long  breath. 
"  Bad  as  the  father  is,  be  is  an  angel  when  compared  with  tb9 


» 


son. 

"  Geoffrey,  he  is  what  the  father  has  made  him.  I  would 
give  much  to  witness  the  meeting." 

"You  would  see  a  frightful  picture  of  human  .guilt  and 
depravity.  Half  his  fortune  would  scarcely  bribe  me  to  witness 
such  a  revolting  scene."  '  i 

The  rain  was  now  pouring  in  torrents,  and  one  inky  hue  had 
overspread  the  whole  heavens.  Finding  that  we  were  likely  to 
be  detained  some  hours,  George  ordered  dinner,  and  we  deter- 
mined to  make  ourselves  as  comfortable  as  circumstances  would 
admit. 

All  our  efforts  to  provoke  mirth,  however,  proved  abortive. 
The  silence  of  our  meal  was  alone  broken  by  the  dull  clattering 
of  knives  and  forks,  and  the  tinkling  of  the  bell  to  summon  the 
brisk  waiter  to  bring  wine  and  draw  the  cloth.  But  if  we  were 
silent,  an  active  spirit  was  abroad  in  the  house,  and  voices  in 
loud  and  vehement  altercation  in  the  room  adjoining,  arrested 
our  attention. 

The  muttered  curse,  the  restless,  impatient  walking  to  and 
fro,  convinced  us  that  the  parties  were  no  other  than  Robert 
Moncton  and  his  son,  and  that  their  meeting  was  not  likely  to 
have  a  very  amicable  termination.  At  length,  the  voice  of  my 
uncle  in  a  terrible  state  of  excitement,  burst  forth  with  this 
awful  sentence : 

"  I  discard  you,  sir  !     From  this  day  you  cease  to  be  my  son. 

Go,  and  take  my  curse  along  with  you !     Go  to I   and 

may  we  never  meet  in  time  or  eternity  again." 


i' . 
i 

Ik 


1^::,^ 


328 


THE     MONCTO  N  3. 


With  a  bitter,  sneering  laugh  the  disinherited  replied.  "In 
heaven  we  shall  never  meet ;  on  earth,  perhaps,  we  may  meet 
too  soon.  In  the  place  to  which  you  have  so  unceremoniously 
sent  me,  I  can  perceive  some  lingering  remains  of  paternal 
affection — that  where  you  are,  I  may  be  also." 

"Hold  your  tongue,  sir.  Dare  you  to  bandy  words  with 
me?" 

"  It  would  be  wisdom  in  you,  my  most  righteous  progenitor, 
to  bribe  me  to  do  so,  when  you  know  how  much  that  tongue 
can  reveal." 

Another  sneering  derisive  laugh  from  the  son,  of  fiendish 
exultation,  and  a  deep,  hollow  groan  from  the  father,  and  the 
unhallowed  conference  was  over. 

Some  one  passed  the  door  with  rapid  steps.  I  walked  to  the 
window  as  Theophilus  emerged  into  the  court-yard  below.  He 
raised  his  eyes  to  the  window  ;  I  met  their  dull,  leaden  stare ; 
he  started  and  stopped  ;  I  turned  contemptuously  away. 

Presently  after  we  heard  him  bargaining  for  a  horse  to  carry 
him  as  far  as  York  on  his  way  to  London. 

"I  don't  envy  Robert  Moucton's  feelings,"  said  George. 
"  What  can  have  been  the  cause  of  this  violent  quarrel  ?" 

"  It  may  spring  from  several  causes.  His  son's  marriage 
alone  would  be  sufficient  to  exasperate  a  man  of  his  malig- 
nant disposition.  But  look,  Harrison,  the  clouds  are  parting 
in  the  west.  The  moon  rises  early,  and  we  shall  have  a  lovely 
night  after  the  rain  for  our  journey  to  York." 

"  Our — I  was  going  by  the  coach  which  pf,sses  through  the 
village  in  an  hour  to  Elm  Grove.  But  now  I  think  of  it,  I  will 
postpone  my  visit  until  the  morrow,  and  accompany  you  a  few 
miles  on  your  way." 

"  I  should  be  delighted  with  your  company,  George,  but" — 

"  You  would  rather  be  alone,  nursing  these  gloomy  thoughts  ?" 

**  Not  exactly.     But  it  will  postpone  your  visit  to  Miss  Lee." 

"  Only  a  few  hours  ;  and  as  I  wrote  yesterday  and  never 


THE     UONOTONS. 


32» 


the 
will 
few 


mentioned  my  visit,  which  was  a  sudden  whim — one  of  your  odd 
presentiments,  GcofiFrey,  which  seemed  to  compel  me  almost 
against  my  will  to  come  here — she  cannot  be  disappointed.  To 
tell  you  the  truth,  I  did  not  like  the  look  with  which  your 
cousin  recognized  you.  When  rogues  are  abroad  it  behoves 
honest  men  to  keep  close  together.  I  am  determined  to  see 
you  safe  to  York." 

I  was  too  much  pleased  with  the  proposal  to  raise  any 
obstacles  in  the  way.  We  fell  into  cheerful  conversation,  and 
whilst  watching  the  clearing  up  of  the  weather,  we  saw  Robert 
Moncton  mount  his  horse  and  ride  out  of  the  Inn-yard. 

"The  sun  is  breaking  through  the  clouds,  George.  It  is 
time  we  were  upon  the  road." 

"  With  all  my  heart,"  said  he  ;  and  a  few  minutes  after  we 
were  upon  our  journey. 

The  freshness  of  the  air  after  the  heavy  rains,  the  delicious 
perfume  of  the  hedge-rows,  and  the  loud  clear  notes  of  the  black- 
bird resounding  from  the  bosky  dells  in  the  lordly  plantations 
skirting  the  road,  succeeded  in  restoring  my  animal  spirits. 

Nothing  could  exceed  the  tranquillity  of  the  lovely  evening. 
George  often  checked  his  horse  and  broke  out  into  enthusiastic 
exclamations  of  delight  whilst  pointing  out  to  me  the  leading 
features  in  the  beautiful  country  through  which  we  were  travel- 
ling. 

**  Where  are  your  gloomy  forebodings  now,  Geoffrey  ?" 

"  This  glorious  scene  has  vrell-nigh  banished  them.  Nature 
has  always  such  an  exhilarating  effect  upon  my  mind  that  I  can 
hardly  feel  miserable  w  hile  the  sun  shines." 

George  turned  towards  me  his  kindling  eyes  and  animated 
countenance. 

"  Geofiff-ey,  I  have  not  felt  so  happy  as  I  do  this  evening, 
since  I  was  a  little,  gay,  light-hearted  boy.  I  could  sing  aloud 
in  the  joyousness  of  hope  and  pleasing  anticipation.    In  this 


880 


THE     MONCTONS. 


1  : 


respect  my  feelings  during  the  day  have  been  quite  the  opposite 
of  yours.  I  reproach  myself  for  not  being  able  to  sympathize 
in  your  nervously  depressed  state  of  mind." 

"  Your  being  sad,  George,  would  not  increase  my  cheerfulness. 
The  quiet  serenity  of  the  hour  has  operated  upon  mo  like  a 
healing  balm.  I  can  smile  at  my  superstitious  fears,  now  that 
the  dark  cloud  is  clearing  ^rom  my  mind." 

Thus  we  rode  on,  chatting  with  the  familiarity  of  long-tried 
friendship,  discussing  our  past  trials,  present  feelings,  and  future 
prospects,  until  the  moon  rose  brightly  on  our  path  ;  and  we 
pushed  our  horses  to  a  quicker  pace,  in  order  to  reach  the  city 
before  midnight. 

The  road  we  were  travelling  had  been  cut  through  a  steep 
hill.  The  banks  on  either  side  were  very  high,  and  crowned  with 
plantations  of  pine  and  fir,  that  cast  into  deep  shadow  the  space 
between.  The  bill  was  terminated  by  a  large  ,deep  gravel  pit, 
through  the  centre  of  which  our  path  lay — and  the  opposite  rise 
of  the  hill,  which  was  destitute  of  trees,  lay  gleaming  brightly 
in  the  mooshine. 

As  we  gained  the  wood-crowned  height,  we  perceived  a  horse- 
man slowly  riding  down  the  steep  before  us.  His  figure  was 
so  blended  with  the  dark  shadows  of  the  descending  road,  that 
the  clicking  of  his  horse's  hoofs,  and  the  moving  mass  of  deeper 
shade  alone  proclaimed  his  proximity. 

"  This  is  a  gloomy  spot,  George.  I  wish  we  were  fairly  out 
of  it." 

"  Afraid,  Geoffrey — and  two  to  one  ?" 

"  No,  not  exactly  afraid  ;  b';.t  this  spot  would  be  lonely  at 
noonday.  Look — look  I  Geo/ge,  what  makes  that  man  so 
suddenly  check  his  horse  as  he  gains  the  centre  of  the  pit  and 
emerges  into  the  moonlight  ?" 

"  Silence  1"  cried  George.  "  That  was  the  report  of  a  pistol. 
Follow  me  I"  ,         ,         u 


THK     110NCT0N8. 


ZZi 


We  spurred  our  horses  to  full  speed  and  galloped  down  th*e 
bill. 

The  robbers,  if  indeed  any  were  near,  had  disappeared,  and 
we  found  the  man  whom  we  had  previously  observed,  rolling  on 
the  ground  in  great  agony,  and  weltering  in  blood. 

Dismounting  from  our  horses,  we  ran  immediately  to  his 
assistance.  He  raised  his  head  as  we  approached,  and  said  in  a 
low  hollow  voice, — 

"  I  am  shot,  I  know  the  rascal,  he  cannot  escape.  Raise  my 
head,  I  feel  choking — a  little  higher.  The  wound  may  not  be 
mortal,  I  may  live  to  be  revenged  upon  him  yet." 

"The  sound  of  that  voice — the  sight  of  those  well-known 
features,  rendered  me  powerless.  I  stood  mute  and  motionless, 
staring  upon  the  writhing  and  crushed  wretch  before  me,  unable 
to  render  him  the  least  assistance. 

It  was  my  uncle  who  lay  bleeding  there,  slain  by  some 
unknown  hand.  A  horrible  thought  flashed  through  my  brain  ; 
a  ghastly  sickness  came  over  me  and  I  stifled  the  unnatural  sup- 
position. 

In  the  meanwhile  Harrison  had  succeeded  in  raising  Mr. 
Moncton  into  a  sitting  posture,  and  had  partly  ascertained  the 
nature  of  his  wound.  Whilst  thus  employed,  the  moon  shone 
full  upon  his  face,  and  my  uncle,  uttering  a  cry  of  terror,  fell 
prostrate  on  the  ground,  whilst  the  blood  gushed  in  a  dark 
stream  from  his  wounded  shoulder. 

"  Geoff'rey,"  and  George  beckoned  me  to  come  to  bim,  "  don't 
stand  shaking  there  like  a  person  in  an  ague  fit.  Something 
must  be  done,  and  that  immediately,  or  your  uticle  will  die  on 
the  road.  Mount  the  high  bank,  and  see  if  you  can  discover 
any  dwelling  nigh  at  hand,  to  which  he  can  be  conveyed." 

His  voice  broke  the  horrid  trance  in  which  my  senses  were 
bound.  I  sprang  up  the  steep  side  of  the  gravel  pit,  and  saw 
oefore  me  a  marshy  meadow,  and  not  far  from  the  road,  a  light 


■T 


332 


THE    MONOTONB. 


glimmered  from  a  cabin  window.  It  was  a  wretched  looking 
place,  but  the  only  habitation  in  sight,  nearer  than  the  village, 
whose  church  spire,  about  two  miles  di^^tant,  glimmered  in  tho 
moonbeams.  Turning  our  horses  loose  to  graze  in  the  meadow, 
we  lifted  a  g'ate  from  the  hinges,  and  placing  the  now  insensible 
lawyer  upon  this  rough  litter,  which  we  covered  with  our  tra- 
velling cloaks,  we  succeeded  with  much  difficulty,  and  after  a 
considerable  lapse  of  time,  in  reaching  the  miserable  hovel. 

On  the  approach  of  footsteps,  the  persons  within  extinguished 
the  light,  and  for  some  time  we  continued  rapping  at  the  door 
without  receiving  any  answer. 

I  soon  lost  all  patience,  and  began  to  hollo  and  shout  in  the 
hope  of  provoking  attention. 

Another  long  pause. 

"  Open  the  door,"  I  cried,  "  ?-  man  has  been  shot  on  the  road; 
he  will  die  without  assistance." 

A  window  in  the  thatch  slow'.y  unclosed,  and  a  hoarse  female 
voice  croaked  forth  in  reply : 

"  What  concern  is  that  of  mine  ?  Who  are  you  who  disturb 
honest  folk  at  this  hour  of  the  night  with  your  drunken  clamors  ? 
My  house  is  my  castle.  Begone,  I  tell  you  1  I  will  not  come 
down  to  let  you  in." 

"  Dinah  North,"  said  Harrison,  solemnly,  "  I  have  a  message 
for  you,  which  you  dare  not  gainsay — I  command  you  to  unbar 
the  door  and  receive  us  instantly." 

This  speech  was  answered  by  a  wild  shrill  cry,  more  resem- 
bling the  howl  of  a  tortured  dog  than  any  human  sound.  I  felt 
the  blood  freeze  in  my  veins.  Harrison  whispered  in  my 
ear, — 

"  She  will  obey  my  summons,  which  she  believes  not  one  of 
earth.  Stay  with  your  uncle,  while  1  ride  forward  to  the  village 
to  procure  medical  aid,  and  make  a  deposition  before  the  magis- 
trate of  what  has  occurred.    Don't  let  the  fiend  know  that  I  am 


t 


THE     MONOTONS. 


888 


alivo.  It  is  of  the  utmost  importance  to  us  all,  that  she  should 
Btill  believo  mo  di'iul." 

1  tried  to  Uc^tuiii  iiim,  not  muclk  liking  my  present  position;  but 
he  hud  vanished,  and  uiiortly  ut'ter  1  heard  the  clatter  of  his 
horse's  hools  gallopinj^  ut  lull  speed  towards  the  town. 

What  a  fearful  termination  of  my  gloomy  presentiments, 
thought  I,  as  1  looked  down  ut  the  livid  face  and  prostrate  form 
of  Robert  Monctun. 

"  Where  will  this  frightful  scene  end  ?" 

The  gleam  of  a  light  Hashed  across  the  broken  casement ;  the 
next  moment  Dinah  North  stood  before  me. 

"  GeoflVey  Moneton,  is  this  you?"  There  was  another  voice 
that  spoke  to  me — a  voice  from  the  grave.  "  Where  is  your 
companion  ?" 

"  I  am  alone  with  the  dead,"  I  said,  pointing  to  the  body. 
"  Look  there  1" 

She  held  up  the  light  and  bent  over  that  insensible  bleeding 
mass,  and  looked  long,  and  I  thought  triumphantly,  at  the 
ghastly  face  of  the  accomplice  in  all  her  crimes.  Then  turning 
her  hollow  eyes  ou  me,  she  said  calmly  : 

*'  Did  you  murder  him  ?" 

"  No,  thank  God,  I  am  guiltless  of  his  blood  ;  but  he  seems 
to  know  the  hand  that  dealt  the  blow." 

*'  Ha,  ha  1"  shrieked  the  hag,  **  my  dream  was  true — my  hor- 
rible dream.  Even  so,  last  night,  I  saw  Robert  Moneton 
weltering  in  his  blood,  and  my  poor  Alice  was  wiping  the  death- 
damps  from  his  brow  ;  and  I  saw  more — more,  but  it  was  a 
sight  for  the  damned — a  sight  which  cannot  be  repeated  to 
mortal  ears. 

"  Yes,  Robert  Moneton,  it  is  fill  up  with  you ;  we  have 
sinned  together  and  must  both  drink  of  that  fiery  cup.  I  know 
the  worst  now." 

"  Hush  1  he  moves — ho  still  lives.  He  may  yet  recover. 
Let  us  carry  him  into  the  house." 


' 


3Bi 


TU  B     MONOTONl. 


"  Uo  has  troubled  the  earth  and  your  father's  house  long 
enough,  Geoffrey  MouctOQ,"  said  the  strange  woman,  in  a  soft- 
ened, and  1  thought,  melancholy  tone.  "  It  is  time  that  both 
he  and  I  received  the  reward  of  our  misdeeds." 

She  assisted  mo  to  carry  the  body  into  the  house,  and  strip- 
ping off  the  clothes,  we  laid  it  upon  a  low  flock  bed,  which 
occupied  one  corner  of  the  miserable  apartment,  over  which  she 
threw  a  coarse  woollen  coverlid. 

She  then  examined  the  wound  with  a  critical  eye,  and  after 
washing  it  with  brandy  she  said  that  the  ball  could  bo 
extracted,  and  she  thought  that  the  wound  was  not  mortal  and 
might  be  cured. 

Tearing  his  neckcloth  into  bandages,  she  succeeded  in  staunch- 
ing the  blood,  and  diluting  some  ot  the  brandy  with  water,  she 
washed  the  face  of  the  wounded  man,  and  forced  a  few  spoonfuls 
down  his  throat 

Drawing  a  long,  deep  sigh,  Robert  Moncton  unclosed  his 
eyes.  For  some  minutes  they  rested  unconsciously  upon  us. 
Recollection  slowly  returned,  and  recoiling  from  the  touch  of 
that  abhorrent  woman,  he  closed  them  again  and  p:voaned 
heavily. 

"We  have  met,  Robert,  in  an  evil  hour.  'Hie  friendship  of 
the  wicked  brings  no  comfort  in  the  hour  of  deaih  or  in  the  day 
of  judgment." 

"  A  vaunt,  witch  1  The  sight  of  your  hideous  face  is  worse 
than  the  pangs  of  death.  Death,"  he  repeated  slowly — "  I  am 
not  near  death — I  will  not  die — I  cannot  die." 

"  You  dare  not  1"  said  Dinah,  in  a  low,  malignant  whisper. 

"  Is  this  cowardly  dastard  the  proud,  wealthy  Robert  Monc- 
ton, who  thought  to  build  up  his  house  by  murder  and  treachery? 
Methinks  this  is  a  noble  apartment  and  a  fitting  couch  for  the 
body  of  Sir  Robert  Moncton  to  lie  in  state." 

*•  Mocking  fiend  !  what  pleasure  can  you  find  in  my  misery  ?" 

"  Much,  much — oh,  how  miicli.     It  is  not  fair  that  I  should 


T  U  IC     M  U  N  C  T  U  N  11 


835 


bear  the  torturos  of  thu  damnud  uloiiu.  iSinco  thu  death  of  the 
only  thing  1  ever  U)ved  1  Imvo  liad  slninge  thoughts  uiid  terrible 
vihions ;  restless,  burning  nights  and  fearful  days.  13ut  I 
cannot  repent  or  wish  undone  that  which  is  done.  I  euii 
neither  weep  nor  pray  ;  I  can  only  curs(! — bitterly  curao  thee 
and  thine.  I  rejoice  to  see.  this  hour — to  know  that  before  I 
depart  to  your  Master  and  mine,  thu  vengeance  of  my  soul  will 
be  satislied." 

"  Geoffrey,  I  implore  you  to  drive  that  beldame  from  the 
room.  The  sight  of  her  hideous  face  and  her  ominous  croaking 
will  drive  me  mad." 

"  Uncle,  do  not  exhaust  your  strength  by  answering  her. 
She  is  not  iu  her  right  senses.  In  a  few  minutes  my  friend  will 
return  with  surgical  aid,  and  we  will  get  you  removed  to  more 
comfortable  lodgings  in  the  village." 

"Do  not  deceive  yourselves,"  returned  Dinah  ;  *'  from  tiie  bed 
on  which  he  now  lies,  the  robber  and  murderer  will  never  rise 
again.  As  he  has  sown,  so  must  he  reap.  He  deserves  small 
kindness  at  your  hands,  Geoffrey  Moucton.  You  should  rather 
rejoice  that  the  sting  of  the  serpent  is  drawn,  and  that  ho  can 
hurt  you  and  yours  no  more." 

"  Alas  I"  returned  I,  taking  the  hand  of  the  wretched  sufferer 
in  mine,  "  how  nmch  rather  would  I  see  him  turn  from  his  evU 
deeds,  and  live  I" 

"  God  bless  you,  Geoffrey  !"  sobbed  forth  my  miserable  nncle, 
bursting  iiito  tears  ;  perhaps  t!  first  he  ever  shed  in  his  life. 
"  Deeply  have  I  sinned  against  you,  noble,  generous  boy.  Can 
you  forgive  me  for  my  past  cruelty  ?" 

•'  I  can— I  do  ;  and  should  it  please  God  to  restore  you  to 
health,  Iwill  prove  the  truth  of  what  I  say  by  deeds,  not  words. 
I  assure  you,  uncle,  I  feel  more  anxious  to  save  your  soul  from 
eternal  misery,  than  to  gain  any  advantage  by  your  death." 

"  Do  not  look  so  like  yonr  father,  Geoffrey.     His  soul  speaks 


■iii 


m 


336 


THE     MO  NCTON  3. 


<  > 


I  .' 


i 


to  me  through  your  eyes.  Your  kindness  heaps  coals  of  fire 
upon  my  head.  It  would  give  me  less  torture  to  hear  you  curse 
than  pray  for  me." 

"  Pray  for  yourself,  uncle.  I  have  never  attended  to  these 
things  as  I  ought  to  have  done.  I  am  punished  now,  when  I 
have  no  word  of  comfort  or  instruction  for  you." 

"  Pray  I"  and  he  drew  a  long  sigh.  "  My  mother  died  when 
Ned  and  I  were  boys.  We  soon  forgot  the  prayers  she  taught 
us.  My  father's  God  was  Mammon.  He  taught  me  early  to 
worship  at  the  same  shrine.  No,  Geoffrey,  no — it  is  too  late  to 
pray.  I  feel — I  know  that  I  am  lost.  I  have  no  part  or  lot  in 
the  Saviour — no  love  for  God,  in  whom  I  never  believed  until 
this  fatal  hour. 

"  I  have  injured  you,  Geoffrey,  and  am  willing  to  make  all  the 
reparation  in  my  power  by  restoring  you  to  those  rights  which  I 
have  labored  so  hard  to  set  aside." 

"  Spare  yourself,  uncle,  the  painful  relation.  Let  no  thought 
on  that  score  divert  your  mind  from  making  its  peace  with  God. 
Walters  has  returned,  and  the  documents  necessary  to  prove  my 
legitimacy  are  in  Sir  Alexander's  hands." 

"  Walters  returned  !"  shrieked  my  uncle.  "  Both  heaven  and 
hell  conspire  against  me.     What  a  tale  can  he  unfold," 

"  Ay,  and  what  a  sequel  can  I  add  to  it,"  said  Dinah,  rising 
from  her  seat,  and  standing  before  him  like  one  of  the  avenging 
furies.  "  Listen  to  me,  Geoffrey  Moncton,  for  it  shall  yet  be 
told." 

"  Spare  me,  cruel  woman,  iu  mercy  spare  me.  Is  not  your 
malice  sufficiently  gratified,  so  see  me  humbled  to  the  dust  ?" 

"  Ah  1  if  your  villainy  had  proved  successful,  and  you  were 
revelling  in  wealth  and  splendor,  instead  of  grovelling  there 
beneath  the  lash  of  an  awakened  conscience,  where  would  be 
your  repentance  ? 

"  What  would  then  become  of  Geoffrey  Moncton's  claims  to 


THK    MONOTONI. 


887 


legitimacy  ?  I  trov7  he  woald  remain  a  bastard  to  the  end  of 
his  days." 

"  Geoflfrey,  for  God's  sake  bid  that  woman  hold  her  venomous 
tongue.     I  feel  faint  and  sick  with  her  upbraidings." 

"  He  is  fainting,"  I  said,  turning  to  Dinah.  "  Allow  him  to 
die  in  peace." 

*'  You  are  a  fool  to  feel  the  least  trouble  about  him,"  said 
Dinah.  "  There,  he  is  again  insensible  ;  our  efforts  to  bring  him 
to  his  senses  will  only  make  matters  worse.  Listen  to  me, 
Geoffrey  Moncton,  I  have  a  burden  on  my  conscience  I  would 
fain  remove,  and  which  it  is  necessary  that  you  should  know. 
Remember  what  I  told  you  when  we  last  met.  That  the  next 
time  we  saw  each  other,  my  secret  and  yours  would  be  of  equal 
value." 


16 


8t8 


THE     lIONOTONt 


CHAPTER    XXT. 


Dinah's  confession. 


"It  is  an  ill  wind,  they  say,  Geoffrey  Moncton,  that  blows 
no  good  to  any  one.  Had  the  son  of  Sir  Alexander  Moncton 
lived,  you  would  have  retained  your  original  insignificance.  It 
is  from  my  guilt  that  you  derive  a  clear  title  to  the  lands  and 
honors  which  by  death  he  lost." 

I  know  not  why,  but  as  she  said  this,  a  cold  chill  crept 
through  me.  I  almost  wisheu  .  he  would  leave  the  terrible 
tale  she  had  to  tell  untold,  I  fi  .v  ^^at  whatever  its  import  might 
be,  that  it  boded  me  no  good. 

My  situation  was  intensely  exciting,  and  made  me  alive  to  the 
most  superstitious  impressions.  It  was  altogether  the  most 
important  epoch  in  my  life. 

Seated  at  the  foot  of  that  miserable  bed,  the  ghastly  face  of 
the  wounded  man  just  revealed  by  the  sickly  light  of  a  miserable 
candle,  looked  stark,  rigid  and  ghost-like,  to  all  outward  appear- 
ance, already  dead.  And  that  horrible  hag,  with  her  witch-like 
face,  with  its  grim  smile,  standing  between  me  and  the  clear 
beams  of  the  moon,  that  bathed  in  a  silvery  light  the  floor  of 
that  squalid  room,  and  threw  fantastic  arabesques  over  the 
time-stained  walls — glanced  upon  me  like  some  foul  visitant 
from  the  infernal  abyss. 

The  hour  was  solemn  midnight,  when  the  dead  are  said  to 
awake  in  their  graves,  and  wander  forth  until  the  second  crowing 
of  the  bird  of  dawn.     I  felt  its  mysterious  influence  steal  over 


TAB    MONCTONS. 


339 


le  of 
•able 
)ear- 
■like 
jlear 
)r  of 
the 
itant 

to 
ring 
)ver 


my  sensea,  and  rob  me  of  my  usual  courage,  and  I  leant  forward, 
to  shut  out  the  ghastly  scene,  and  covered  my  face  with  my  hands. 

Every  word  that  Dinah  uttered  fell  upon  my  ear  with  terrible 
distinctness,  as  she  continued  her  revelations  of  the  past. 

"  My  daughter,  Rachel,  by  some  strange  fatality  had  won  the 
regard  of  her  dtlicate  rival.  Lady  Moneton,  who  seemed  to  feel 
a  perverse  pleasure  in  loading  her  with  favors.  Whether  she 
knew  of  the  attachment  that  had  existed  between  her  and  Sir 
Alexander  is  a  secret.  Perhaps  she  did  not,  and  waa  only 
struck  with  +hc  beauty  and  elegance  of  the  huntsman's  wife — 
which  was  certainly  very  unusual  in  a  person  of  her  humble 
parentage.  Be  that  as  it  may,  she  deemed  her  worthy  of  the 
highest  trust  that  one  woman  can  repose  in  another.  The 
charge  of  her  infant  son,  and  that  son  the  heir  of  a  vast  estate. 

"Rachel  was  not  insensible  to  the  magnitude  of  the  con- 
fidence reposed  in  her  ;  and  for  the  first  six  months  of  the 
infant's  life,  she  performed  her  duty  conscientiously,  and  bestowed 
upon  her  nurse-child  the  most  devoted  care, 

"  Robert  Moneton  came  to  the  Hall  at  this  time  to  receive 
the  rents  of  the  estate  for  Sir  Alexander — for  he  was  his  man 
of  business.  He  saw  the  child,  and  perceived  that  it  was  a  poor, 
fragile,  puling  thing;  the  thought  er  ered  his  wicked  heart, 
that  if  this  weakly  scion  of  the  old  family  tree  were  removed 
his  son  would  be  heir  to  the  title  and  lands  of  Moneton. 

"  I  don't  know  what  argument  he  made  use  of  to  win  Rachel 
to  his  purpose.  I  was  living  with  him  at  the  time  as  his  house- 
keeper ;  for  the  wife  he  had  married  was  a  poor,  feeble-minded 
creature — the  mere  puppet  of  his  imperious  will,  and  a  very 
indifferent  manager.  But  she  loved  him,  and  at  that  period  he 
was  a  very,  handsome  man,  and  had  the  art  of  hiding  his  tyran- 
nical temper,  by  assuming  before  strangers  a  pleasing,  dignified 
manner,  which  imposed  on  every  person  who  was  not  acquainted 
with  the  secrets  of  the  domestic  prison-house. 


840 


THE    MONCTONS. 


"  Rachel  consentfd  to  make  away  with  the  child  ;  but  on 
the  very  nigho  she  had  set  apart  for  the  perpetration  of  the 
deed,  God  smote  her  own  lovely  boy  upon  the  breast,  and  the 
tears  of  the  distracted  mother  awoke  in  her  mind  a  conscious- 
ness of  the  terrible  sin  she  had  premeditated. 

"  To  hearts  like  Robert  Moncton's  and  mine  this  circumstance 
would  not  have  deterred  us  from  our  purpose  ;  but  Rachel  was 
not  like  us,  hardened  in  guilt  or  bad,  and  unknown  to  us  both 
she  reared  the  young  heir  of  Moncton  as  her  own. 

"It  was  strange  that  neither  of  us  suspected  the  fact. 

"  I  might  have  known,  from  the  natural  antipathy  I  felt  for 
the  child,  that  he  was  not  of  my  flesh  and  blood  ;  but  God  hid 
it  from  me,  till  Rachel  informed  me  on  her  death-bed  of  the 
deception  she  had  practised. 

"  It  was  an  important  secret,  and  I  determined  to  make  use 
of  it  to  extort  money  from  Robert  Moncton,  when  the  child 
should  be  old  enough  to  attract  his  attention.  I  owed  him  a 
long  grudge,  and  this  gave  me  powei  to  render  him  restless  and 
miserable.  Thus  I  suflfered  George  Moncton  to  live,  to  obtain 
a  two-fold  object — the  gratification  of  Avarice  and  Revenge. 

"  In  spite  of  neglect  and  harsh  treatment,  which  were  insepar- 
able from  the  deep-rooted  hatred  I  bore  him  on  his  parents' 
account,  the  hand  of  Heaven  was  extended  over  the  injured 
child. 

"  He  out-grew  the  feeble  delicacy  of  his  infancy,  and  when  he 
had  attained  his  fourth  year,  was  a  beautiful  and  intelligent 
boy. 

"  His  father,  as  if  compelle*!  by  powerful  natural  instinct, 
lavished  upon  him,  the  most  abundant  marks  of  favor.  Lady 
Moncton's  love  was  that  of  a  doting  mother,  which  increased 
up  to  the  period  of  her  death.  • 

"  The  death  of  Lady  Moncton,  and  that  of  Roger  Mornington, 
followed  quickly  upon  each  other,  and  all  my  old  hopes  revived, 


TUE     UONCTONS. 


841 


^  f:    i 


!'■ 


when  Sir  Alexander  renewed  his  attentions  to  my  daughter. 
But  vain  are  the  expectations  of  the  wicked.  Bitter  experience 
has  tanght  me  (though  it  took  me  a  long  life  J;o  learn  that  les- 
son) that  man  cannot  contend  with  God — and  my  beautiful 
Rachel  died  in  her  prime,  just  when  my  fondest  expectations 
seemed  on  the  point  of  realization. 

"  Years  fled  on — years  of  burning  disappointment  and  ungra- 
tifted  passion.  The  little  girl  Rachel  left  to  my  care  was  hand- 
some, clever  and  affectionate,  and  I  loved  her  with  a  fierce  love, 
such  as  I  never  felt  oefore  for  anything  of  earth — and  she  loved 
me — a  creature  from  whose  corrupted  nature,  all  living  things 
seemed  to  start  with  abhorrence. 

"  I  watched  narrowly  the  young  heir  of  Moncton,  who  led 
that  smiling  rosebud  by  the  hand,  and  loved  her  too,  but  not  as 
I  could  have  wished  him  to  love  her. 

"  Had  I  seen  the  least  hope  of  his  ever  forming  an  attach- 
ment for  his  beautiful  playmate,  how  different  would  have  been 
my  conduct  towards  him. 

"  Alice,  was  early  made  acquainted  with  the  secret  of  his 
birth,  and  was  encouraged  by  me,  to  use  every  innocent  bland- 
ishment towards  him,  and  even  to  hint  that  he  was  not  her 
brother,  in  order  to  awaken  a  tenderer  passion  in  his  breast. 

"  His  heart  remained  as  cold  as  ice.  His  affections  for  Alice 
never  exceeded  the  obligations  of  nature,  due  to  her  as  his 
sister.  They  were  not  formed  for  each  other  and,  again  disap- 
pointed in  my  ambitious  hopes,  I  vowed  his  destruction. 

"  At  this  time  Sir  Alexander  sent  him  to  school  at  York,  and 
the  man  who  lies  grovelling  on  that  bed,  was  made  acquainted 
with  his  existence." 

A  heavy  groan,  from  Robert  Moncton,  interrupted  for  a  few 
miuutefi  the  old  woman's  narrative.     She  rose  from  her  seat, 
took  the  lamp  from  the  table,  and  bending  over  the  sorry  couch,  •' 
regarded  the  rigid  marble  features  of  my  uncle,  with  the  same 


U 


t 


842 


THE    UONCTONS. 


ii 


kee.1  scrutiny,  that  she  had  looked  upon  me  ia  the  garret  of  the 
old  house  in  Hatton  Garden. 

"  It  was  but  a  passing  pang,"  she  said,  resuming  her  seat. 
"  His  ear  is  closed  to  all  intelligible  sounds." 

I  thought  otherwise,  but  after  rociiing  herself  to  and  fro  on 
her  seat  for  a  short  space,  she  again  fixed  upon  me  her  dark, 
searching,  fiery  eyes,  and  resumed  her  Ule. 

"  Robert  Moncton  bore  the  intelligence  with  more  temper 
than  I  expected.  Nor  did  he  then  propose  any  act  of  open 
violence  towards  the  innocent  object  of  our  mutual  hatred — but 
determined  to  destroy  him  i.i  a  more  deliberate  and  less  danger- 
ous way.  At  that  time  I  was  not  myself  eager  for  his  death, 
for  my  poor  deluded,  lost  Alice,  had  not  then  formed  the  ill- 
fated  attachment  to  Theophilus  Moncton,  which  terminated  in 
her  broken  heart  and  early  grave — and  which,  in  fact,  has 
proved  the  destruction  of  all,  and  rendered  the  house  of  the 
destroyer  as  desolate  as  my  own. 

"  At  first  I  could  not  believe  that  the  attachment  of  my 
poor  girl  to  Theophilus  was  sincere,  but  when  I  was  at  length 
convinced  that  both  were  in  earnest,  my  long  withered  hopes 
revived.  I  saw  her  in  idea,  already  mistress  of  the  Hall,  and 
often  in  private  called  her  Lady  Moncton. 

"  I  despised  the  surly  wretch,  whom,  unfortunately,  she  only 
loved  too  well,  and  looked  upon  his  union  with  my  grandchild 
as  a  necessary  evil,  through  which  she  could  alone  reach  the 
summit  of  my  ambitious  wishes. 

"  In  the  meanwhile,  Alice  played  her  cards  so  well  that  she 
ELd  her  lover  were  privately  married — she  binding  herself,  by 
a  solemn  promise,  not  to  divulge  the  secret,  even  to  me,  until 
a  fitting  opportunity. 

"  After  a  few  months,  her  situation  attracted  my  attention. 
I  accused  her  of  having  been  betrayed  by  her  fashionable  para- 
mour. 


\ 


•Bsam 


THE     MONCTONS 


84S 


"She  denied  the  charge — was  obstinate  and  vioUat,  and 
much  bitter  language  passed  between  us. 

Just  at  this  period,  young  Mornir.gton  returned  to  us,  a  ruined 
man.  He  fell  sick,  and  both  Alice  and  myself  hoped  that  his  dis- 
ease would  terminate  fatally.  In  this  we  were  disappointed.  He 
slowly  and  surely  recovered  in  spite  of  our  coldness  and  neglect. 

"  Before  he  was  able  to  leave  his  bed,  Robert  Moncton,  who 
had  discovered  his  victim's  retreat,  paid  us  a  visit  Wk,  he 
cajoled,  by  promising  to  give  his  conse.it  to  his  con's  marriage 
with  Alice,  but  only  on  condition  of  our  uniting  to  rid  him  for 
ever  of  the  man  who  stood  between  him  and  the  long-coveted 
estates  and  title  of  Moncton. 

"  7,  for  my  part,  was  easily  entreated,  for  our  interests  were 
too  closely  united  in  his  destruction,  for  me  to  raise  any  objec- 
tions. 

"  Alice,  however,  was  a  novice  in  crime,  and  she  resisted  his 
arguments  with  many  tears,  and  it  was  not  until  be  threatened 
to  disinherit  her  husband,  if  he  ever  dared  to  speak  to  her 
again,  that  she  reluctantly  consented  to  administer  the  fatal 
draught  that  Robert  prepared  with  his  own  hands." 

There  was  a  long  pause,  I  thought  I  heard  the  sound  of  horses' 
hoofs  in  the  distance.  Dinah  heard  it  too,  and  hastened  to  con- 
clude her  narrative. 

"  Yes,  George  Moncton  died  in  the  bloom  of  life,  the  victim 
of  treachery  from  the  very  morning  of  his  days.  But  the  cry 
of  the  ir  :ocent  blood  has  gone  up  to  the  throne  of  God,  and 
terrible  vengeance  has  pursued  his  murderers. 

"  When  I  discovered  that  Alice  was  the  lawful  wife  of  Theo- 
philus  Moncton,  and  that  the  child  she  carried,  if  it  proved  a 
son,  would  be  Sir  Alexander's  heir,  I  made  a  journey  to  Lon- 
don, to  communicate  the  fact  to  Robert  Moncton,  and  to  force 
him  to  acknowledge  her  publicly  as  his  daughter-in-law. 

"  He  would  not  believe  me  on  my  oath — and  declared  that  it 


844 


THK     IfONCTONS. 


was  only  another  method  to  extort  money.  I  produced  the 
proofs.  He  vowed  that  they  were  base  forgeries,  and  tore  the 
documents,  trampling  them  under  his  feet — and  it  was  only  when 
I  threatened  to  expose  the  murder  of  Ms  cousin,  that  he  conde- 
scended to  listen  to  reason. 

*'  It  was  then,  for  the  first  time,  I  heard  of  your  existence, 
and  a  new  and  unforeseen  enemy,  seemed  to  start  up  and  defy  me 
to  my  teeth. 

"  Robert  Moncton  laughed  at  mj  fears,  and  told  me  how 
ingeniously  he  had  contrived  to  biand  you  with  the  stigma  of 
illegitimacy. 

"  He  could  not  however  lull  my  fears  to  rest,  until  I  was  satis- 
fied that  Walters  had  really  placed  the  stolen  certificates  in  the 
iron  chest  in  your  garret — and  late  as  it  was,  v/e  went  to  assure 
ourselves  of  the  fact." 

"  Oh,  how  well  I  remember  that  dreadful  visit,"  said  I — "  and 
the  horrible  dream  that  preceded  it." 
"  You  were  awake,  then  ?" 

"  Yes — awake  with  my  eyes  shut — and  heard  all  that  passed." 
"  A  true  Moncton,"  and  she  shook  her  palsied  head.     "  The 
devil  is  in  you  all.     You  know  then,  that  our  search  was  fruit- 
less, and  I  returned  to  Moncton  with  the  conviction,  that  we 
were  destined  to  be  defeated  in  our  machinations. 

"  Six  months  after  these  events,  Alice  gave  birth  to  a  son, 
and  was  greatly  cheered  by  the  news,  which  reached  her  through 
one  of  the  servants  at  the  Hall,  that  her  husband  had  returned 
from  Italy,  and  was  in  London," 

"  The  rest  of  her  melancholy  history  is  known  to  me,"  said  I. 
"  It  was  my  arm  that  lifted  her  from  the  water  when  she  at- 
tempted to  destroy  herself.  Oh,  miserable  and  guilty  woman, 
what  have  you  gained  by  all  your  deep-laid  schemes  of  villainy  ? 
As  to  you,  Dinah  North,  the  gibbet  awaits  you— and  your  pros- 
pects beyond  the  grave  are  more  terrible  still." 


■■^ 


TUK     MUNUTUNS 


345 


*'  Dinah  North  will  never  die  beneath  the  gaze  of  an  insolent 
mob/'scid  the  old  woman,  with  a  sullen  laugh.  "  A  few  months 
ago,  Geoffrey  Moncton,  and  I  would  have  suffered  the  rack, 
before  I  would  have  confessed  to  you  aught  that  might  render 
you  a  service,  but  the  kindness  you  showed  to  ray  unhappy  gruod- 
child — awoke  in  my  breast  a  feeling  towards  you  foreign  to  my 
nature,  I  have  been  a  terrible  enemy  to  your  house  But  you, 
at  least,  should  regard  me  as  o,  friend.  Had  George  Moncton 
lived,  what  wculd  become  of  your  claims  to  rank  and  fortune  ?" 

"  Dinah,  he  does  live  I"  and  the  conviction  that  I  was  penni- 
less— a  poor  dependent  upon  a  noble  house,  instead  of  being  the 
expectant  heir,  pressed  at  that  momjnt  painfL../  on  my  heart. 
"See,"  I  continred,  as  the  door  opened,  and  George  attended 
by  several  persois  entered  the  house,  "he  is  here  to  assert  his 
lawful  claims.     The  grave  has  given  up  its  dead." 

The  same  wild  shriek  that  burst  so  frightfully  on  my  ears, 
when  George  first  addressed  the  old  woman,  rang  through  the 
apartment. 

"  Constables,  do  your  duty,"  said  George.  **  Instantly  secure 
that  woman." 

As  he  spoke,  the  light  was  suddenly  extinguished,  and  we 
were  left  in  darkness.  Before  the  hurry  and  bustle  of  re-kind- 
ling it  was  over,  Dinah  North  had  disappeared,  and  all  search 
after  her  proved  fruitless. 


16* 


346 


THE     MONOTONI. 


CHAPTER    XXXI. 


BETBIBUTIVE    JUSTICE. 


Robert  Moncton  had  lain  in  a  stupor  for  the  last  hoar.  The 
surgeon  whom  George  had  brought  with  him  fvom  the  village, 
after  carefully  examining  the  wound,  to-  my  surprise,  declared 
that  it  was  mortal,  and  that  the  sufferer  could  not  bo  removed, 
as  his  life  must  terminate  in  a  few  hours. 

During  the  extraction  of  the  bullet  and  the  dressing  of  the 
wound,  Robert  Moncton  recovered  his  senses  and  self-possession, 
and  heard  his  doom  with  a  glassy  gaze  of  fixed  despair. 

Then,  with  a  deep  sigh,  he  asked  if  a  lawyer  were  present,  as 
he  wished  to  make  his  will,  and  set  his  affairs  in  order  before  he 
died. 

George  had  brought  with  him  a  professional  gentleman,  the 
clergyman,  and  one  of  the  chief  magistrates  in  the  village.  H*" 
now  introduced  to  his  notice  the  Rev.  Mr.  Chapman,  and  Mr. 
Blake,  the  solicitor. 

"  When  I  require  your  offices,"  he  said,  addressing  the  former 
gentleman,  "  I  will  send  for  you.  Such  comfort  as  you  can  give 
in  the  last  hour,  will  not  atone  for  the  sins  ot  a  long  life.  This 
is  one  of  the  fallacies  to  which  men  cling  when  they  can  no 
longer  help  themselves.  They  will,  however,  find  it  a  broken 
reed  when  called  upon  to  pass  through  the  dark  valley. 

"  With  you,  sir,"  shaking  hands  "with  Mr.  Blake,  "  my  busi- 
ness lies.  Clear  the  room  till  this  matter  is  settled  ;  I  wish  us 
to  be  alone  " 


TxiE     MUKCTONI. 


t4: 


The  clergymau  mounted  his  horse  and  rode  away  in  high 
dudgeon.  George  and  I  gladly  availed  ourselves  of  the  oppor- 
tunity of  leaving  for  a  while  the  gloomy  chamber  of  death,  and 
taking  a  turn  in  the  fresh  air. 

We  wandered  forth  into  the  clear  night ;  the  blessed  and 
benignant  aspect  of  nature  forming,  as  it  ever  does,  a  solemn, 
holy  contrast  with  the  turbulent,  restless  spirit  of  man.  Nature 
has  her  storms  and  awful  convulsions,  but  the  fruits  are  fertility, 
abundance,  rest.  The  fruits  of  our  malignant  passions  —  sin, 
disease,  mental  and  physical  death. 

My  blighted  prospects,  in  spite  of  all  my  boasted  disinterest- 
edness, weighed  heavily  on  my  heart.  I  tried  to  rejoice  in  my 
friend's  good  fortune,  but  human  nature  with  all  its  sins  and 
weaknesses  prevailed.  I  was  not  then  a  Christian,  and  could 
scarcely  be  expected  to  prefer  the  good  of  my  neighbor  to  my 
own. 

Bowed  down  and  humbled  by  the  consciousness  of  all  I  had 
lost,  I  should,  had  I  been  alone,  have  shamed  my  manhood,  and 
found  relief  in  tears. 

"  Dear  Geoffrey,  why  so  silent  ?"  and  GWge  wrung  my  hand 
with  his  usual  warmth.  "  Have  ycu  no  word  for  your  friend. 
This  night  has  been  one  of  severe  trial.  God  knows  how  deeply 
I  sympathize  in  your  feelings.  But  cheer  up,  my  dear  fellow  ; 
better  and  brighter  moments  ire  at  hand." 

"  No,  no,  not  for  me,"  returned  I,  almost  choking.  "  I  am 
one  of  the  unlucky  ones  ;  no  good  can  ever  happen  to  me.  My 
hopes  and  prospects  are  blighted  for  ever.  It  is  only  you, 
George  Moncton,  who,  in  this  dark  hour,  have  reason  to 
rejoice." 

He  stopped  and  grasped  my  arm.  "  What  do  you  mean, 
Geoffrey,  when  you  call  me  by  that  name  ?" 

"  That  it  belongs  to  you." 

"  To  me  1    Has  Dinah  made  any  confession  ?" 


f, 


S4t 


TUS     M0NCTUN8. 


"  She  has.  Have  a  little  patience,  George,  till  I  can  collect 
my  scattered  thoughts,  and  tell  you  all." 

I  then  communicated  to  him  the  conversation  that  had  passed 
between  Dinah  and  myself,  though  my  voice  often  trembled  with 
emotion,  and  I  could  scarcely  repress  my  tears. 

Ho  heard  me  silently  to  the  end  ;  then  flinp^ing  his  arms 
about  my  neck,  he  pressed  me  closely  to  his  heart,  and  wo  wept 
together. 

"  Ah,  Geoffrey,  my  cousin,  my  more  than  brother  and  friend," 
ho  said  at  last,  "  how  gladly  would  I  confer  upon  you,  if  it 
would  increase  your  comfort  and  happiness,  the  envied  wealth 
that  has  been  tlio  fruitful  cause  of  such  revolting  crimes. 

"  Ah,  mother  !"  ho  continued,  looking  up  to  the  calm  heavens, 
and  raising  his  hands  in  a  sort  of  ecstasy,  *'  dear,  sainted,  angel 
mother,  whom,  as  a  child,  I  recognized  and  loved,  it  is  only  on 
your  account  that  I  rejoice — yes,  with  joy  unspeakable,  that  I 
am  indeed  your  son  —  that  the  boy  you  adored  and  fondly 
cherished  was  the  child  you  sought  in  heaven,  and  wept  on 
earlh  as  lost.  And  that  fine,  generous,  noble-hearted  old  man 
— how  proud  I  shall  feel  to  call  him  father,  and  recall  all  his 
acts  of  kindness  to  me  when  a  nameless  orphan  boy.  And 
Margaretta,  my  gentle  sister  —  my  best  and  earliest  friend. 
Forgive  me,  dear  Geoffrey,  if  thoughts  like  these  render  mo 
happy  in  spite  of  myself.  I  only  wish  that  you  could  partici- 
pate in  the  fullness  of  my  joy." 

"  I  will — I  do  I"  I  exclaimed,  ashamed  of  my  past  regrets. 
"  The  evil  spirit  of  envy,  George,  cast  a  dark  shadow  over  the 
sunshine  of  my  heart.  This  will  soon  yield  to  better  feelings. 
You  know  me  to  be  a  faulty  creature  of  old,  and  must  pity  and 
excuse  my  weakness." 

Unconsciously  we  had  strolled  to  the  top  of  a  wild,  heathery 
common,  which  overlooked  the  marshy  meadows  below,  and  was 
covered  with  dwarf  oaks  and  elder  bushes. 


TUB     UUNOTONS. 


349 


,s 


Though  close  upon  day-break,  the  moon  waa  still  bright,  and 
I  tiiought  I  discerned  something  which  resembled  the  sharp 
outline  of  a  human  figure,  suspended  from  the  lower  branch  of  a 
gnarled  and  leafless  tree,  the  long  hair  and  garments  fluttering 
loosely  in  the  wind. 

With  silent  horror  I  pointed  it  out  to  my  companion.  Wo 
both  ran  forward  and  soon  reached  the  spot. 

Here,  between  us  and  the  full,  broad  light  of  the  moon,  hung 
the  skeleton-like  figure  of  Dinah  North  ;  her  hideous  counto- 
na!ice  rendered  doubly  so  by  the  nature  of  her  death. 

Her  long  grey  hair  streamed  back  from  her  narrow  contracted 
brow;  her  eyes  wide  open  and  staring,  caught  a  gleam  from  the 
mooa  that  heightened  the  malignant  expression  which  had  made 
theiu  terrl  io  to  the  beholder  while  in  life. 

We  ne'  Vi'  r  spoke,  but  looked  at  each  other  with  eyes  full  of  horror. 

Reorge  sprang  -^p  the  tree  and  cut  down  the  body,  which  fell 
a*;  mr  feet  with  a  dull,  heavy  sound. 

"  She  has  but  anticipated  her  fate,  Geoffrey.  Surely  tho 
hand  of  God  is  here." 

"  Miserable  woman  1"  I  said,  as  I  turned  with  a  shudder  from 
tie  livid  corpse — **  is  this  the  end  of  all  your  ambitious  hopes  ? 
Your  life  a  tissue  of  revolting  crimes — your  end  despair  " 

We  hurried  back  to  the  cottage  to  give  the  alarm,  and  found 
Robert  Moncton  awake  and  in  his  senses,  though  evidently  sinking 
fast. 

"  Dinah  North  dead  1"  he  said,  "  and  by  her  own  voluntary 
act.  This  is  retributive  justice.  She  has  been  ray  evil  gtuius 
on  earth,  and  has  gone  before  me  to  our  appointed  place. 

"  Geoffrey  Moncton,  I  have  a  few  words  to  say  to  you  before 
I  follow  on  her  track. 

"  I  have  injured  you  during  my  life.  I  have  however,  done 
you  justice  now.  I  have  made  you  my  heir  ;  the  sole  inheritor 
of  the  large  fortune  I  have  bartered  my  soul  to  realize." 


850 


TH  K     liONOTO  N8 


"  But,  uncle,  you  have  a  son, 
His  face  grew  dark  as  night. 


» 


.;:  ( 


"  None  that  I  acknowledge  as  such.  And  mark  me,  Geoffrey 
— he  compressed  his  lips  firmly  and  grasped  my  hand  tightly  as 
he  spoke — I  have  left  you  this  property  on  one  condition — that 
you  never  bequeath  or  share  one  copper  of  it  with  that  racsal 
Theophilus  Moncton,  for  in  such  case  it  will  benefit  neither 
party,  but  will  revert  to  your  cousin,  Margaretta  Moncton.  Do 
you  hear  ?"  and  he  shook  me  vehemently. 

"  And  what  will  become  of  Theophilus  ?" 

He  laughed  bitterly. 

"  He  will  yet  meet  with  his  deserts.  What  I  have  done  may 
seem  harsh  to  you,  Geoflfrey,  but  it  is  strictly  just.  My  reasons 
for  so  doing  may  puzzle  the  world  and  astonish  professional 
men,  but  it  is  a  secret  which  never  will  be  known  until  I  meet  the 
human  monster,  who  calls  himself  my  son,  at  the  eternal  bar. 
And  may  the  curse  of  the  great  Judge  of  all  flesh,  and  my 
curse,  cleave  to  him  for  ever." 

I  shrank  back  from  him  with  feelings  of  disgust  and  horror, 
which  1  took  no  pains  to  conceal ;  but  it  was  unnoticed  by  him. 
The  hand  relaxed  its  rigid  grasp,  the  large  icy  eyes  lost  the 
glitter'ng  brilliancy  that  had  marked  them  through  life,  the  jaw 
fell,  and  the  soul  of  Robert  Moncton  nassed  forth  from  those 
open  portals  to  its  drear  and  dread  account. 

"  He  is  dead,"  said  the  lawyer. 

I  drew  a  long  sigh. 

"  How  did  he  come  to  his  death,  young  gentleman  I" 

"  He  was  shot  from  behind  the  hedge,  as  he  rode  through  the 
pit  at  the  end  of  the  long  plantation.  He  said,  when  we  first 
found  him,  tbit  he  knew  the  person  who  shot  him." 

"  He  a,dmitted  the  same  thing  to  me,  but  would  net  mention 
the  name  of  the  assassin.     I  have  my  own  suspicions." 

I  had  mine,  but  I  did  not  wish  to  hint  at  the  probability  of 


THE     M0NCT0N8. 


851 


tioQ 
of 


a  fact  that  Robert  Moncton  had  purposely,  I  have  no  donbt, 
left  nurevealed.  The  cause  of  his  death,  and  the  hand  that  per- 
petrated the  deed  have  never  been  discovered,  but  will  remain 
open  to  conjecture  as  long  as  those  live  who  feel  the  least  inter- 
est in  the  subject.  It  was  supposed,  that  important  information 
could  be  obtained  from  his  son,  which  might  throw  some 'light 
upon  the  mystery,  but  he  had  disappeared,  and  no  trace  of  his 
whereabouts  could  be  discovered. 

We  were  detained  for  several  days  at  the  village  whilst  the 
coroner's  inquest  sat  on  the  bodies,  and  we  had  made  a  state- 
ment before  the  proper  authorities  of  all  we  knew  about  this 
mysterious  affair. 

Before  three  days  were  at  an  end,  the  public  journals  were 
filled  with  accounts  of  the  awful  tragedy  that  had  occurred  at 

the  village  of ,  in  Yorkshire;  and  the  great  talents  and 

moral  worth  of  the  murdered  lawyer  were  spoken  of  in  terms  of 
the  highest  praise,  which  certainly  astonished  his  relations,  and 
would  have  astonished  himself.  The  only  stain  on  his  character, 
the  extraordinary  manner  in  which  he  had  disinherited  his  only 
son,  in  order  to  place  a  foor  relation  who  had  been  brought  up 
in  his  house,  in  his  shoes.  It  was  evident  to  all,  the  part  this 
domestic  sneak  must  have  acted  in  the  dreadful  tragedy  to  ensure 
the  property  to  himself. 

Hints  of  a  darker  nature  were  thrown  out,  which  deeply 
wounded  my  sensitive  pride,  and  which  drew  a  reply  from  Mr. 
Blake,  who  stated,  that  Mr.  Moncton  told  him  that  the  murderer 
was  well  known  to  him,  but  he  never  would  reveal  to  any  one 
who  or  what  he  was.  That  he  left  young  Geoffrey  Moncton  and 
George  at  the  inn,  and  they  did  not  come  up  until  after  he  was 
shot.  That  the  assassin  did  not  attempt  to  conceal  himself,  but 
exchanged  ivords  with  him  and  met  him  face  to  face. 

I  had  just  taken  up  my  pen  to  add  my  testimony  to  that  of 
the  worthy  Mr.  Blake,  when  the  door  of  the  room  suddenly 


352 


THK     M0NCT0N8. 


opened,  and  Sir  Alexander  and  his  lovely  daughter,  banishe<! 
all  other  objects  from  my  brain. 

What  an  overflowing  of  eyes  and  hearts  succeeded  that  unex- 
pected meeting.  How  1  envied  George  the  hearty  embrace  with 
which  the  fine  old  man  received  his  newly  recovered  son.  The 
tearful  joy  that  beamed  in  the  dark  eloquent  eyes  of  his  delight- 
ed sister  as  she  flung  herself  with  unrestrained  freedom  into  the 
arms  of  that  long-cherished  friend,  and  now  beloved  brother. 

My  welcome  was  not  wanting  either — Sir  Alexander  received 
me  as  another  son,  and  my  own,  my  lovely  Madge  as  something 
dearer  to  her  than  even  a  brother. 


THK     U0NCT0N8 


353 


('■■'      ^J  :   ; 


CHAPTER    XXXII. 


THE   EOUBLE   BRIDAL. 


The  first  excitement  of  our  meeting  over,  I  was  painfully 
struck  with  the  great  alteration  that  the  absence  of  a  few  weeks 
had  made  in  the  face  of  Margaret. 

Her  eyes,  always  beautiful,  now  gleamed  with  an  unnatural 
brilliancy  ;  and  her  pure,  pale  complexion,  at  times  was  flushed 
with  a  hectic  glow,  which,  contrasting  with  the  dazzling  white 
teeth  and  je^black  hair,  gave  a  fearful  beauty  to  her  charming 
face. 

I  took  her  hand  in  mine.     It  burned  with  fever. 

"  Dear  Margaret,  are  you  ill  ?" 

She  raised  her  eyes  to  mine,  swimming  in  tears. 

"  Not  ill,  Geoffrey  ;  only  a  little  weak." 

"No  wonder,  when  you  are  in  such  a  state  of  emaciation. 
You  ought  not  to  have  let  the  death  of  Alice  bring  you  so  low 
as  this." 

"Your  absence  and  long  silence,  dear  Geoffrey,  have  had 
more  to  do  with  my  poor  health  than  the  death  of  my  unfortu- 
nate friend." 

"How  so,  dearest?" 

"  Torturing  anxiety,  sleepless  nights,  and  days  of  weeping 
would  produce  this  change  in  stronger  frames  than  mine.  But 
that  is  all  past.  I  am  quite  well  and  happy  now,  and  Margaret 
will  soon  be  herself  again." 

This  was  accompanied  by  such  a  sad,  moonlight  smile,  that  it 


Sft4 


THE     MONCTOMS. 


only  served  to  increase  my  fears.    I  inquired  earnestly  if  her 
father  had  consulted  a  medical  man. 

"  Oh,  yes — a  dozen,  at  least." 

*'  And  what  opinion  did  they  give  ?" 

"  They  told  the  plain  truth.  Said  that  my  illness  was  pro- 
duced by  mental  excitement.  That  change  of  air  and  scene 
would  soon  bring  me  round." 

I  felt  that  I  looked  grave  and  sad.  She  put  her  arm  round 
my  shoulder,  and  whispered  iu  my  ear  :  "  You  are  mine, 
Geoffrey,  and  I  shall  soon  get  well  in  the  society  of  those  I 
love  ;  so  banish  that  gloomy  frown,  and  try  to  participate  in  the 
general  joy. 

"  I  have  procured  an  excellent  fllite  for  you,  as  a  little  pre- 
sent. You  shall  play,  and  I  will  sing,  and  Kate  Lee  (of  whom 
1  am  no  longer  jealous)  and  George  shall  dance,  and  papa  shall 
smoke  his  cigar  beneath  our  favorite  old  tree  and  enjoy  the  fun, 
and  we  shall  all  be  so  happy." 

Thus  did  my  poor,  fading,  white  rose  strive  to  divert  my 
thoughts  into  a  brighter  channel ;  and  hope,  ever  attendant 
upon  the  young,  cheated  mo  into  the  belief  that  all  would  yet 
be  well. 

Instead  of  returning  to  Moncton  Park,  George  proposed  our 
accompanying  him  to  Elm  Grove.  Sir  Alexander  thought  the 
change  would  be  beneficial  to  Margaretta,  and  we  joyfully 
accepted  his  proposal. 

I  exchanged  my  horse  with  Sir  Alexander,  and  took  his  place 
beside  Madge  in  the  open  carriage.  The  good  Baronet  rode 
with  his  yon,  who  had  a  thousand  revelations  of  his  past  life  to 
communicate  to  his  delighted  father. 

Madge  and  1  were  not  without  our  histories  and  conft;->aions  ; 
and  long  before  we  entered  the  avenue  that  led  to  Elm  Grove, 
the  dear  girl  had  promised  to  become  my  wife,  when  returning 
health  shculd  remove  the  last  barrier  to  our  union. 


«s-.»*-i 


TUK     1I0NCT0N8. 


355 


Our  reception  at  Elai  Grove  was  sach  as  might  bave  becu 
expected  from  its  amiable  possessors. 

Accounts  of  Robert  Monctou's  and  Dinah  North's  death  had 
travelled  there  before  us,  and  formed,  for  the  first  few  days,  the 
theme  of  general  discussion.  My  kind  friend,  Mrs  Hepburn, 
warmly  congratulated  me  on  ray  accession  of  fortune,  and  Dan 
Simpson  was  almost  beside  himself  with  joy.  Though  I  could 
uo  longer  regard  myself  as  Sir  Alexander's  successor,  I  found 
myself  not  a  whit  inferior  in  wealth  and  importa:  ^e. 

Sir  Alexander  received  my  propos»il  for  his  daughter  with 
unfeigned  satisfaction.  He  wrung  my  hand  with  hearty  good- 
will. "  Two  sons,  my  dear  Geoff.  God  h..s  given  me  two  sons 
in  return  for  depriving  me  of  one  of  them  for  so  many  years. 
Faith,  my  dear  boy,  I  hardly  know  which  of  you  is  dearest  tc 
the  old  man.  Madge,  however,  has  found  out  which  of  the 
twain  she  loves  best.  I  shall  resign  the  Hall  to  George  and  his 
pretty  bride,  and  will  come  and  live  with  my  dear  girl  and  my 
adopted  son — hey,  Madge  I  will  you  give  the  old  man  an  easy 
place  by  your  fire-side  ?" 

Margaret  threw  herself  into  his  extended  arms,  parted  the 
white  wavy  locks  from  his  high  forehead,  and  devoutly 
kissed  it. 

Thus  did  we  suffer  hope  to  weave  bright  garlands  for  the 
future,  without  reflecting  how  soon  the  freshest  flowers  of  earth 
are  withered  and  scattered  in  the  dust. 

Cheered  by  the  society  and  sympathy  of  her  new  friends,  with 
a  devoted  lover  ever  at  her  side,  Margaretta  regained  much  of 
her  former  health  and  cheerfulness. 

Hand  in  hand  we  roamed  among  the  Derby  hills,  and  visited 
every  romantic  spot  in  the  neighbor hoo  .  -not  forgetting  the  old 
parsonage  '<;  :re  my  mother  was  born—ilie  spot  wlvere  ray  good 
old  grandtaLaer  was  buried — the  little  inn  over  which  Mrs. 
Archer  presided,  ^.l;o  was  infinite! 'j    lelighted  witl   ;>\)ing  me 


^k. 


356 


THE     MONCTONS. 


again,  and  hearing  me  introduce  her  lovely  boy  to  Margaretta's 
especial  notice. 

Kate  Lee  did  the  honors  of  the  house  with  the  most  bewitch- 
iug  grsicc,  and  she  and  Margaretta  formed  the  most  lively 
ivttachmetU  t<>  each  other. 

Is  she  not  nflautiful,  Geoffrey?"  said  Margaretta,  as  we  sat 
togel'f.er  a  tli-  ?  twn  beneath  the  shade  of  a  large  ash  ;  and  she 
watched  her  friend  as  she  bounded  past  us  down  the  grassy 
slope,  to  join  Sir  Alexander  and  his  son  in  their  evening  walk. 

"  Yes,  very  b /lutiful,  Madge." 

"  Don't  YOU  envy  George  the  possession  of  such  a  charming 
wife  r 

"  I  lovo  George  and  admire  his  Kate,  but  I  would  not 
exchange  my  little  fairy,"  and  I  pressed  her  fondly  to  ray  heart, 
"  for  his  stately  queen." 

"  Ah,  flatterer,  how  can  I  believe  you,  who  would  prefer  the 
pale,  drooping  snow-drop  to  the  perfumed,  glowing  rose  ?" 

"  Let  George  keep  his  rose — the  peerless  among  many  sweets 
—but  give  me  the  pure  solitary  gem  of  early  spring,  which 
cheers  with  its  modest  grace  the  parting  frowns  of  envious 
winter." 

I  pressed  her  small  white  hand  with  fervor  to  my  lips  and 
heart.  The  meek  head  of  the  gentle  girl  sunk  drooping  on  my 
bosom.  The  long  black  lashes  that  veiled  her  matchless  eyes 
were  heavy  with  large  bright  tears. 

"  Why  do  you  weep,  sw^et  Madge  ?" 

"  I  am  too  happy.  These  are  tears  of  joy  ;  they  relieve  the 
fullness  of  mj  heart.  After  suffering  so  much  bitter  grief  it  is  a 
luxury  to  weep  in  the  arms  of  the  beloved." 

How  often  have  I  recalled  tho^e  words  v/h^n  weeping  in  mad- 
ness on  her  grave,  and  found  r: .,  jOy  i^a  (^rief — no  peace  in  my 
iistracted  heart. 

The  harvest  had  been  gathered  in,  and  the  ripe  autumnal 


THE     MONCTONS. 


S57 


fruits  hung  heavily  on  the  loaded  trees  when  we  retnrned  to 
Moncton  Park,  The  first  of  October  had  been  named  for  the 
celebration  of  our  double  nuptials,  and  all  was  bustle  and 
activity  at  the  Hall,  in  making  the  necessary  preparations  for 
the  important  event.  Margaretta  appeared  to  take  as  much 
interest  in  the  matrimonial  arrangements  as  her  lively  friend, 
Kate. 

Not  a  ribbon  was  selected  or  a  dress  pn^'chased,  but  George 
and  I  were  called  to  give  our  opinion  of  its  beauty  or  becoming- 
uess  ;  whilst  the  good  old  Baronet's  whole  time  and  att.  ntion 
were  directed  to  the  improvements  and  decorations  which  he 
had  planned  in  the  interior  of  the  Hall. 

Thus  all  went  merry  as  a  marriage  bell  until  the  second  week 
in  September,  which  was  ushered  in  by  heavy  gales  and  frequent 
showers. 

Often,  when  returning  from  our  accustomed  rides  and  walks, 
Margaret  would  draw  her  shawl  tightly  round  her,  and  clinging 
closely  to  my  arm,  would  complain  that  she  was  cold — very 
cold. 

One  day  in  particular,  when  the  deceitful  beauty  of  the  morn- 
ing had  induced  us  to  extend  our  ride  a  few  miles  farther  than 
usual,  we  all  got  drenched  by  a  sudden  shower  of  rain.  The 
next  morning  my  dear  girl  complained  of  a  pain  in  her  chest, 
sudden  chills  and  weariness  of  mind  and  body.  These  symptous 
were  succeeded  by  a  short,  hacking  cough,  and  sudden  flushings 
of  the  face,  which  greatly  alarmed  us  all. 

Medical  advice  was  instantly  called  in,  but  Margaret's  malady 
daily  increased  and  her  strength  rapidly  declined. 

I  dared  not  whisper  to  myself  the  fears  that  oppressed  my 
heart,  and,  was  almost  afraid  of  asking  Dr.  Wilson  the  nature  of 
her  complaint. 

To  my  utter  grief  and  despair  he  informed  me  that  his 
patient  was  beyond   human  aid — that  a  few  weeks,  at  the 


868 


THE     MONCTONS. 


farthest,  would  terminate  the  existence  of  the  gentlest  and 
purest  of  human  beings. 

"  It  would  be  cruel  to  deceive  you,  Mr.  Moncton,"  he  said,  as 
he  announced  the  startling  truth — for  the  dreadful  communica- 
tion had  quite  unmanned  me.  "  Let  this  comfort  you  in  your 
aflfliction,  that  I  have  anticipated  this  for  years — that  our  dear 
patient  has  carried  about  with  her  the  seeds  of  this  fatal  malady 
from  infancy — that  it  is  better  that  she  should  thus  fall  in  the 
budding  season  of  youth,  than  leave  hereafter  a  family  of  child- 
ren to  bewail  their  irreparable  loss.  I  sorrow  for  her  father 
and  you,  Mr.  Geoffrey,  more  than  for  her.  Death  has  few 
terrors  to  a  sincere  Christian,  and  such  from  childhood  Mar- 
garet Moncton  has  been.  A  friend  to  the  friendless — a  sister 
of  mercy  to  the  poor  and  destitute."  \ 

Oh,  reader  1  if  you  have  ever  known  what  it  is  to  see  your 
fondest  hopes  annihilated  at  the  very  moment  ot  their  apparent 
fulfillment,  you  can  form  some  idea  of  my  mental  anguish  whilst 
Watching  the  decay  of  that  delicate  flower. 

Margaret  wa.«  now  fully  aware  of  her  danger,  a  most  uncom- 
mon circumstance  in  the  victims  of  that  insidious  disease,  ou 
whom  Death  aavances  so  softly  that  he  always  comes  suddenly 
at  last.  She  prepared  herself  to  meet  the  mighty  conquerer 
with  a  cheerful  submission  to  the  will  of  God,  that  surprised 
us  all. 

One  thing  she  earnestly  entreated,  that  the  marriage  of 
Catberine  and  George  might  not  be  postponed  on  account  of 
her  illness. 

"  I  not  only  wish  to  witness  their  happiness  before  I  go  hence, 
but  to  share  in  it,"  she  said  to  us,  a  few  days  before  the  one 
that  had  been  appointed  for  the  ceremony,  as  we  were  all  sitting 
round  the  sofa  on  which  she  wa?  roclining. 

"  And  you,  dearest  Geoffrey,  must  give  me  a  lawful  claim  to 
the  tender  care  I  receive  from  yon        iough  I  can  ou'y  be  your 


st 


THK     UONCTONS. 


859 


tting 

to 
rour 


wife  in  name,  I  shall  die  happy  in  hearing  yoa  address  me  by 
that  coveted  appellation." 

I  could  in  reply  only  press  her  wasted  form  in  my  arms  and 
bathe  her  hands  and  face  with  my  tears.  How  earnestly  iiad  I 
wished  to  call  her  mine,  though  I  lacked  the  courage  to  make 
the  proposal  so  dear  to  my  peace. 

Oh,  what  a  melancholy  day  was  that  to  us  all.  Margaret's 
sweet  face  alone  wore  a  serene  smile,  as,  supported  by  her  father, 
she  stood  beside  me  at  the  altar. 

How  beautiful  she  looked  in  her  white  bridal  dress.  What  a 
mockery  was  the  ceremony  to  my  tortured  heart,  whilst  fancy, 
busy  with  my  grief,  converted  those  flowing  garments  into  a 
snowy  shroud. 

One  little  week  after  that  melancholy  ev  I  again  bent 
btfore  that  altar,  to  partake  of  the  last  tokens  of  a  Saviour's 
dying  love  ;  but  I  knelt  alone.  The  grave  had  closed  over  my 
bright,  my  beautiful,  my  virgin  bride,  and  my  soul  had  vowed 
an  eternal  divorce  from  the  vanities  and  lusts  of  earth. 

%  *  *  *  It  Jtn 

Year-  hr\o  fled  on  in  their  silent  and  undeviating  course.  I 
am  now  £'\  old,  grey-headnd  man. 

Sir  Alexander  Moncton  has  long  beon  gathered  to  his  fathers, 
and  the  old  Hall  is  iilled  by  a  race  ^  healthy,  noble-looking 
young  people,  the  children  of  Sir  Geoi^,.  Moncton  and  Cathe- 
rine Lee. 

I,  too,  have  a  Geoffrey  and  a  Margaret,  the  children  of  my 
adoption,  for  out  of  a  large  family  Sir  George  willingly  sparer*, 
me  il  ;;.-..••. 

For  years  I  have  resided  at  the  Lodge,  formerly  the  res'f'ence 
of  Dinah  North,  which  I  have  converted  into  a  pretty  dwelling, 
surrounded  by  shrubberies  and  flower-gardens. 

I  love  to  linger  near  the  scenes  where  the  happiest  and  sad- 
dest moments  of  my  life  were  passed. 


"<■ 


'  H 


800 


THB     MONCTONI. 


Bobold  me  now — a  cheerful  and  contented  old  niu  i,  sur- 
rounded by  dear  young  faces,  who  lavish  upon  Uncle  Geoflfrey 
the  redundant  afifections  of  warm  and  guileless  hearts. 

My  wealth  is  the  means  of  making  many  happy — of  obviating 
the  sorrows  of  the  sorrowful,  and  smoothing  with  necessary 
comforts  the  couch  of  pain. 

When  I  first  lost  my  beloved  Margaret,  I  mourned  as  one 
without  hope  ;  but  it  pleased  God  to  hallow  and  bless  my  afflic- 
tions, and  by  their  instrumentality,  gently  to  lead  me  to  a  know- 
ledge of  the  truth — that  simple  and  holy  truth,  which  has  set 
mo  free  from  the  chains  of  sin  and  the  fear  of  death. 

In  what  a  different  light  I  view  all  these  trials  now.  How 
sincerely  I  can  bless  the  munificent  hand  that  wounds  but  to 
seal — punishes  but  to  reform — who  has  poured  upon  the  dark- 
ness of  my  soul  the  light  of  life,  and  exchanged  the  love  of 
earth,  which  bound  me  grovelling  in  the  dust,  for  the  love  of 
Christ — sorrow  for  the  loss  of  one  dear  companion  and  friend, 
into  compassion  for  the  sorrows  and  sufferings  of  the  whole 
humai:  race. 


A  few  words  more,  gentle  reader,  and  we  part  for  ever. 
These  relate  to  the  fate  -^f  Theophilus  Moncton,  and  fully  illus- 
trate the  awful  text — " There  is  no  peace,"  saith  my  God,  "for 
the  wicked  " — and  again — "  The  wicked  have  no  hope  in  their 
death." 


1 


From  the  hour  that  Robert  Moncton  fell  by  the  hand  of  the 
unkno,?!!  midnight  assassin,  Theophilus  Moncton  was  never  seen 
or  heard  of  again  for  upwards  of  twenty  years,  until  his  name 
was  forgotten,  and  I,  like  the  rest  of  the  world,  believed  that  he 
was  dead,  or  a  voluntary  exile  in  a  foreign  land. 

One  day,  while  crossing  the  Strand,  just  below  Somerset 


TUE    UONCTONS. 


861 


Ilouse,  my  charity  was  solicited  by  the  dirty,  rugged  sweeper 
of  the  street. 

The  voice,  thouj^li  long  unheard,  was  only  too  familiar  to  my 
ear,  and  looking  earnestly  at  the  suppliant,  with  mingled  sensa- 
tions of  i)ity  and  horror,  I  recognized  my  long-lost  cousin, 
Thcophilus  Moncton. 

He,  too,  recognized  me,  and  dropping  the  tattered  remains  of 
his  hat  at  my  feet,  muttered  half  aloud  : 

"  Do  uot  betray  me,  Geoffrey  ;  I  am  a  lost  and  miserable 
man.  My  punishment  is  already  greater  than  flesh  and  blood 
can  well  bear." 

"  Wliat  assistance  can  I  render  you  ?''  I  asked,  in  a  faltering 
voice,  as  I  droppi  d  my  purse  into  his  hat,  for  the  sight  of  him 
recalled  many  painful  recollections. 

*'  You  have  rendered  me  the  best  in  your  power  ;"  and  fling- 
ing away  his  broom,  he  disappeared  down  a  dirty,  narrow  alley, 
leaving  me  iu  a  state  of  doubt  and  anxiety  concerning 
him. 

Wishing  to  convert  this  sinner  from  the  error  of  his  ways, 
and  to  elucidate,  if  possible,  the  mystery  which  involved  his 
father's  death,  I  repaired  to  the  same  place  for  several  days  in 
the  hope  of  meeting  with  him  again,  but  without  success. 

A  week  elapsed,  and  I  found  another  tattered  son  of  want 
supplying  his  place  at  the  crossing  of  the  street.  Dropping  a 
shilling  into  his  extended  hand,  1  asked  what  had  become  of  the 
poor  fellow  that  used  to  sweep  there. 

"  Saving  your  honor's  presence,"  returned  the  men'  ucant,  in 
a  broad  Irish  accent,  "  he  was  a  big  blackguard,  and  so  he  was, 
not  over-honest  neither,  and  always  drunk.  T'other  day,  some 
foolish  body  who  had  more  money  nor  wit,  took  a  fancy  to  his 
ugly,  unwholesome  phiz.,  and  gave  him  a  purseful  of  gould — or 
mayhap  he  stole  it — an'  he  never  quits  the  grip  of  the  brandy 
bottle  till  he  dies.    They  carried  the  body  to  the  poor-house, 


862 


THE     MONOTONS. 


and  i\\V',  all  I  knows  of  tho  chap.  'Tis  a  lucky  thing,  yer 
honor,  that  tho  scamp  has  neither  wife  nor  child." 

I  thou<?ht  so,  too,  as  with  u  heavy  sii^h  I  took  my  way  to  the 
Inn,  murmuring  to  myself  as  I  walked  along  : 

"And  such  is  the  end  of  tho  wicked." 


THE    END. 


A   BOOK  TUB  JESUITS  CAN  NOT  SUPJ'/IKSS  I 


THE  ESOAPED  NUN; 

OR, 

DISCLOSURES    OF    CONVENT    LIFE. 

Oiping  n  mor^  Mlnut^^  DfHO'ljitlnnand  a  Eolihr  ninltHon  of  ih^  M;/nterif»  and 
,Sfcrf(s  of  Nat)ni'rli'H,  t/iun  htive  ever  liejitr«  beta  aubmittcd  to  the  American  jhMU:. 
JClei/duttj/  bound  in  cloth,  I'imo.    J'rlcf,  |1. 

Tlie  public  are  awnre  that  wo  have  lately  been  involved  In  a  course  of  litigation 
respecting  a  Hook  on  Convent  I.iro,  and  the  roHUlt  U  also  linown.  There  Is  a  ifvcut  dlver- 
■Ity  of  opinion  rcHpcctlng  the  injunction  and  itH  attendlnf(  clrcurn8laneeH ;  but  tliore  la 
but  one  opinion  an  reRiirds  tiic  merits  of  tlie  Ixxili  we  Imve  now  llio  ]>Irii8ure  of  presentiiij?, 
and  whieli  coutains  a  fuller  and  nioro  detailed  account  of  the  inner  life  of  Convents  or 
Nunnerieo,  than  wo  could  have  i)re.sented  in  any  other  form.  In  order  to  render  thin 
volume  as  full  an  expoHltion  as  poHsibie  of  tlie  a')U>c>s  of  which  it  tre'its,  and  to  (jive  pub- 
licity to  facts  which  admit  of  almost  immediate  veriflcation,  In  addition  to  tho  principal 
narrative,  the  Conkkssions  oi'  a  "Sisteu  oic  Ciiauitv,"  ?/'/•/</«  )i  hij  hernfff,  are  also 
embodied,  together  with  The  lOxPKiiiKNin;  op  a  Ncn,  the  detaiia  of  whose  eventful  history 
arc  deeply  interesting;  so  that  In  thk  invaluable  work,  we  have  a  most  diversined  and 
tJiorough  exposition  of  the  immoralities  and  impostin-es  as  practLsed  in  niuineries. 

Parents  and  Quardians  who  have  tho  most  distant  Idea  of  sending  their  children  or 
warda  to  these  prison-houses,  falsely  called  *'  Institutions  of  Learning,"  should  no*  fail  to 
re«<l  the  palpable  evidences  of  their  crlminiility  hi  entertaining  such  a  thought,  i.s  set 
forth  in  this  book— evidences  convincing  and  undeniable.  The  profound  sensation  which 
these  astounding  revelations  are  destined  to  create,  has  been  already  cxper!  need  to 
some  extent  in  tlw  literary  world,  among  editors  who  have  been  furnished  with  proof 
sheets  of  the  work.  '  :y  say  that  "  It  bears  tlje  uninistakubie  marks  of  truthfulness 
upon  its  face;  ami  ^v  i 
such  horrid  crimi  in'  ;i 
unerring  flp'»er  t^  i 
implicit  be.i  '  ' 


Vid  shrinks  with  terror  from  the  necessity  of  believing  that 
)'  ;i'"  i...  u'actised  in  convents.  Ituthercis  Truth  i)uintlng  with  her 
I  J  vcioi      nd  the  facts,  and  to  her  revelations  we  are  bound  to  yield 

I  In  I. !.        I  u  '.utes  but  a  small  portion  of  the  Contents: 


Perversion  to  Roi.iai  ■        -  Che  Trop. 
The  Laws  of  Nature  • ..  i    i  liaws  of  Popery. 
The  New  Prison. — Myi^t  rious  Influences. 
Suspicious  Intimacy. — Contemplated  Escape. 
Immoral  Practices  in  ("oiiVeiits, 
Ueflections  on  the  Cruel  Dondage  of  Nun- 
nerieo. — Inveigling  Uiris  into  Convents. 
The  Mother  Superior. — The  Pretty  Nuns. 


An  Aecidentiil  Discovery.    The  Alarm. 
.My  Fliglit. — 'I'he  Boat. — The  flscape. 
Murder  of  an  Americin  Nun  at  Sea. 
Uxuuriiioim  from  ttie  ConviMit  dressed  as  n 

Sister  of  Cliarlty,  as  a  Priest,  Ac. 
Strange  men  in  Die  Convent. — Prisons  again 

Convent  of  the  Sacred . 

Midnii.'lit  Adventures  in  the  Convent. 


Culpability  of  Parents  in  sending  Daugliters;  Tlie  Hotel  Dieu.  or  Klaclc  Nunnery. 


to  Nunneries, — Tlie  Forced  Ceremony 
The  bitterness  of  Deatli  Anticipated. 
Forced  to  leave  the  Convent  at  Midnight. 
Imprisonment. — Ueleasc. — An  Outrage. 
Passion  of  the  Superior. — Priestly  iJuplicity. 
The  Stolen  Portrait.— Tile  banied  IJisl.op. 
The  Ordeal. — The  Victory. — Deception. 
Convents  above  the  Laws.— The  Jesuit  Spies. 


Cliaracter  of  I'opish  Priests. 

Crimes  of  Priests  and  Tricks  of  Nuns, 

Disguised  for  School-teachers. 

My  Cell. — A  Ittide  and  Insolent  Priest. 

Gagged  an<l  lilindfolded. — The  Conference. 

Praying  to  all  but  Gocl.-  -'I'lie  Gay  superior. 

A  Confessor  in  Love. — A  Wedding. 

The  Mystery  Explained.  —0  id  and  Man. 


DE  WITT  &  DAYENPOET,  Plt  r.   i^n?. 


I'iO  &  162  y-^-L-]-  .U  •  £T,  N.  Y 


A  VALUABLE    HOUSEHOLD   BOOK. 


SI  o  X3  iKT  za  SI 

IN 

THE     I>EA.OTIOE 


OF 


A  NEW  YORK  SURGEON. 

BY    EDWARD    H.    DIXON,    M.D., 

EDITOR    OF    THE    ««SCALPEL." 

Embellished  with  Eight  E:.qu!sit8  EnRravings,  from  original  Designs,  by  Darlet, 
Engraved  by  N.  Orr.    Elegantly  bound  la  cloth,  gilt.    Price,  $1  25. 

This  highly  interesting  work  is  the  embodiment  of  much  that  is  valuable  iu  science  and 
Btriking  in  incident.  The  facts  and  narratives  here  grouped  together  have  been  gleaned 
during  a  practice  both  varied  and  lengthy,  and  from  sources  the  most  diverse  both  in 
means  and  matter.  The  canopied  couch  and  the  lowly  pa'let — pampered  luxury  and 
starved  mendicity— have  each  contributed  to  illustrate  seme  of  ihose  phases,  the  peculi- 
arity of  which  has  led  many  a  reflecting  mind  to  exclaim—  "  Verily,  life  is  a  mystery,  and 
death  the  solution  thereof!" 

"  Let  us  hope  that,  whatever  truths  useful  to  humanity  may  be  found  within  these 
pages,  will  live  for  a  little  while  after  the  hand  that  sketched  them  is  resolved  into  its 
elements,  and  mingled  with  the  atmosphere  and  the  earth  whence  it  originated." 

The  following  is  but  a  small  portion  of  the  Contents  : 


Scenes  in  City  Practice. — ; 
The  Ciiolera  of  '32— The 
Broadway  Workwomen — The 
Young  Mother  —  The  Last 
Day's  Work— Terry's  Court- 
nhip. 

The  Nerve  Power. — What 
is  the  Nature  of  the  Nerve 
Power? — Its  action  on  our 
Bodies,  under  the  various 
Stimuli— Its  Power  over  the 
Contraction  of  the  Muscles — 
The  Influence  of  Prolonged 
Inspiration  in  Curing  Dis- 
eases and  in  giving  strengtii 
to  the  Body — How  does  it 
compare  witli  other  Systems 
of  Cure  ? 

On  Hooping  Congh.— 
What  is  Hooping  Cough? 
•—Period  of  Occurience — 
/irst  Symptoms — Subtle  Clia- 
racter  of  the  Contagion  — 
Period  of  Duration.  —  Its 
usual  Attendants — Manner 
of  Treatment — Has  Medicine 
any  power  over  it  ? 


Will  Mfdicine  Cure  Con- 
smnption  ?— Origin  of  Con- 
sumption— The  Stelhescope — 
Formation  of  Tubercles — ; 
Cougli  an  Early  Symptom — ] 
Bronchitis. 

Sce7tes  in  Southern  Prac- 
tice.— King  Death  in  his  Yel-' 
low  Robe — Tlie  Proud  Mer-' 
chant  —  The  Lovely  Creole' 
Wife.  j 

On  Croup.  —  What  is 
Croup? — Its  Symptoms  and 
Treatment. 

Scarlet  Fever. — What  are 
the  Causes  of  its  Dreadful 
Fatal'ty  ? — Has  Medicine  any 
control  over  it? 

Recollections  of  City 
Practice.  —  Privation  —  Our 
Two  Lodgers  —  A  Faithful 
Sister — First  Affection — An 
Unworthy  Object — The  Art- 
less Victim  —  Tlie  Young 
Motlier — Tlie  Wedding — Ma- 
ternal Love— Tlie  Legacy — 
Tlie  Closing  Scene. 


Importance  of  Truth  in 
Education.— The  Right  of 
Discovery — Fairy  Stories — 
Children  should  behold  Truth 
in  their  Parents. 

Scenes  in  a  Western  Phy- 
sician's Life. — Wnat  is  Me- 
mory ? — College  Life  in  thf 
Country— The  Pious  Studenw 
—The  Orphan  Betrayed— Tiie 
Robin's  Nest— Maternal  Re- 
flections—Wliat  is  Love? — 
The  Funeral  Pile  :  what  is  its 
Philosophy? 

Functions  of  the  Skin. — 
Cold  Fatal  to  Infants. 

Scenes  in  City  Practice. — 
1.  Death's  Quartette  ip  .Gar- 
ret—  Delirium  Trenuus  —  2. 
Precariousneas  of  Med  :al 
Lite  in  New  York — A  I'rofes- 
sional  Martyr — The  Curse  of 
an  Irish  Practice — Deati  of 
the  Physician,  his  Widow 
and  Child— Parental  Love — 
Mercantile  Aftection  —  The 
Love  of  Money. 


DE  WITT  ife  DAVEIs"PORT,  PuBLisiiEr.3, 

160  &  162  NASSAU  STREET,  N.  Y. 


l\. 


GREAT  ANTI-CATHOLIC  WORKS. 

A    BOOK   TUB    JESUITS    CAN    NOT    SUPPRESS! 


T'ZZXI     :E1  &  G  .A.  I»  lEt  la     JNTTJUS-  ^ 

OR,  DISCLOSURES  OF  CONVENT  LIFE. 

Giving  a  more  Minute.  Deitaription  and  a  Bolder  Revelation  of  the  Mysteries  and 

ISecvetn  of  Nunnerien,  thitn  have  ever  before  been  Hiihmitted  to  the  American 

publio.    £,'l(/jantli/  I'oand  in  cloth,  \2mo.    J'riceil. 

Injunctions,  slanders,  and  vile  insinuations  avail  not  to  injure  the  sale  of  this  popular 
exposition  of  the  terrible  evils  of  Convkn't  Lifk.  The  more  the  Jesuits  endeavor  to  sup- 
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is  just  the  work  to  give  it  to  them,  being  nu  Action,  but  actual  experience  of  living  wit- 
nesses. 


j^TTCTX^XTXj     X>XSOXjOSIT7Z=I.Z3S. 

BY  MARf  A  MONK,  OP  THE  HOTKL  DIEU  NUNNERY,  MONTREAL. 

Price,  cloth  75  ceiUa. 

Almost  eirery  one  has  heard  of  the  terrible  disclosures  of  Maria  Monk,  which  about. 
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were  greatly  divided  in  their  o|)inions  as  to  the  truth  or  falsehood  of  her  statements. 
Rec3nt  developments  have  go. lu  far  to  establish  the  certainty  of  their  </"it<A,  and  much 
curiosity  has  been  therefore  expressed  to  see  the  work,  wlilch  has  been  long  out  of  print, 
and  consequently  scarcely  seen  by  the  present  generation  of  readers.  Hence  this  repub- 
lication. 


THE  ONLY  EDITION  CONTAINl.NG  "  ALL "  THR  LETTBRS  OS  SESATOR  BROOKS. 

THE    CONTROVERSY    BETWEEN 

SENATOR   BROOKS   AND    "tJOHN," 

ARCHBISHOP   OF   NEW   YORK. 
Growing  out  of  the  Speech  of  Senator  Brooks  on  the 


IN  the:  new  tore  state  senate,  makob  6tb,  1855. 

Arranged  for  publication,  with  an  Introductory  Preface,  hy 

WILLIAM   S.   TISDALE. 

With  well  executed  Portraits  of  the  Senator  and  Archbishop. 

We  have  been  at  considerable  expense  In  getting  up  this  Pamphlet.  It  is  well  printed 
on  good  paper,  making  a  Book  of  over  eighty-four  pages,  small  type.  And  it  is  well  to 
remember  that  this  is  the  only  complbtk  Edition  iu  the  market,  the  Catholics  having 
omitted,  in  the  one  published  by  them,  three  or  four  of  Senator  Brooks'  most  unanswera- 
ble letters.    The  Price  per  hundred  is  $14,  $1  80  per  doz.,  25  cents  single  copy. 

Tfils  Controversy  therefore  awok«  a  spirit  of  inquiry  on  the  subject  more  exciting  and 
more  engrossing  than  anything  before  the  public  for  years. 


THE    KNOW  NOTHING    ALMANAC, 
AKD  TRUE  AMEBICAN'S  MANUAL,  FOB  1856. 

EDITED  BY   W.   3.  TISDALB,  ESQ. 

Price,  %'  per  hwidred,  8  shiil.  per  dozen,  12  M  cents  single  copy. 
This  little  work  is  the  best  calculated  of  any  American  pamphlet  ever  published  to  dis- 
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FATHER  GAVAZZVS  LECTURES 

IN  NEW  YORK. 

ALSO, 

THE  LIFE   OF  FATHER    GAVAZZT, 

OORRBOTBD  AND  AUTQORIZBD  BT  HIHSBLV. 

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Himself  a  Priest,  he  Is  cognizant  of  the  vices  and  abuses  that  exist  In  the  Romish 
Church,  and  does  not  fear  to  expose  them  at  the  hazard  of  his  life.  The  clergy  and  the 
press  speak  of  his  Lectures  in  enthusiastic  terras. 


BEATRICE; 

OK,   THE   UNKNOWN   EELATIVES. 

BY  MISS  SINCLAIR. 

Price,  in  paper,  60  eta. ;  cloth,  75  cfe. 

The  most  formidable  opponent  of  Romanism  that  the  Church  hus  had  thlj  centiry. 
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Hxtract  of  a  Letter  from  Res,  N.  Murray  (the  celebrated  Kerwln). 

Elizabethtown,  Feb. )  st,  1853, 
Mbssrs.  Db  Witt  &  Davenport: 

In  "  BiiATRiOB  "  she  taxes  all  her  energies,  and  the  result  is  a  work  of  deep  interest 
and  great  power.  Its  object  is  to  expose  the  deceptive  arts  of  Popery  and  of  the  Jesuits, 
and  this  it  does  with  great  truthfulness  and  elfect.  It  can  not  be  otherwise  than  greatly 
useful  in  aiding  to  remove  from  the  world  the  great  curse  of  humanity — Popery. 

N.  MURRAY. 


HELEN  MULGRAVE  ; 

OB,    JESUIT    EXECUTORSHIP. 
AN  AtrrOBIOGRAPHY  OF  A  YOUNO  LADY,  A  SECEDER  FROM  ROMANISM, 

Price,  in  paper,  60  ct^. ;  cloth  75  eta. 

Umxs  MdlorAvk;  or,  Jesuit  Exboutorsiup,  Is  the  title  of  a  narrative  by  a  converted 
Catholic,  showing  one  phase  of  tlte  well-known  Intrlgur  and  rascality  which  Jesuit  priests 
are  wont  to  practice,  in  the  case  of  wills  and  estates  of  the  dead.  It  Is  a  tale  to  harrow 
up  every  generous  and  honorable  feeling — and  is  all  the  more  harrowing  as  the  reader's 
knowledge  of  history  will  forbid  his  regarding  it  as  iki  all  exaggerated  o\-  fictitious, — Neva 
York  Evangelist. 

The  writer  here  records  her  own  experience.  It  is  a  lively  deocrlptlon  of  suffering  and 
perseverance,  and  a  lifelike  development  of  the  art,  cruelty  and  blindness  of  Roman- 
tern.— Oene^ee  Ecinffcb'.^: 


GUEAT  NATIONAL  WORK. 
OFF-HAND  TAKINGS;   OR,    CRAYON  SKETCHES 

OP  THE  NOTICEABLE  MEN  OF  OUR  AGE. 

BY  GEORGE  W.  BUNGAY. 

KmbeUished  loifh  Nin^en  Portraits  on  Steel.  Elegantly  hound  in  doth.  Price  $1  60. 

This  Is  a  work  that  should  be  in  the  hands  of  every  American  who  is  proud  of  his 
country,  and  of  the  men  who  have  helped  to  render  that  country  honored  abroad  by 
tlieir  contributions  in  Literature,  Science,  Commerce  or  Arts.  Though  some  of  the  per- 
sons in  the  following  list  are  handled  pretty  roughly,  still,  we  think  moat  persona  will  allow 
that  the  hard  treatment  they  get  Is  deserved. 

The  Book  la  well  printed  on  beautiful  paper,  embellished  with  Nineteen  Portraita,  en- 
graved on  Steel,  in  the  finest  style  of  the  art. 


Daniel  Webster. 

Henry  Clay. 

Edwin  H.  Chapin  (portrait). 

John  Charles  Fremont. 

G.  P.  Morris  and  N.  P.  Willis 

Wm.  H.  Seward  (portrait). 

Edw.  Everett  (portrait). 

John  P.  H.ile  (portrait). 

Father  Taylor. 

John  C.  Calhoun. 

Lewis  Cass. 

Charles  C.  Burleigh. 

H.  Ward  Beecher  (portrait). 

Abbot  Lawrence. 

Ualph  Walde  Emerson. 

J.  Van  Buren  (portrait). 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier. 

Wastiington  Irving. 

G.  W.  Bethune. 

B.  P.  Whipple. 

G.  C.  Hebbe  (portrait). 

Rufus  Choate. 

Horace  Mann. 

Dr.  Boardman. 


CONTENTS. 

Solon  Robinson  (portrait.) 

John  Ross  Dix. 

P.  T.  Barnum  (portrait). 

Dr.  E.  Kane. 

Nathaniel  Hawthorne. 

Samuel  F.  B.  Morse. 

Geo.  W.  Kendall. 

Saml.  Houston  (portrait). 

Pierre  Soul6. 

W.  Thackeray. 

John  Plerpont. 

Horace  Greeley  (portrait). 

George  N.  Briggs. 

Theodore  Parker. 

Neal  Dow  (portrait). 

Philip  S.  White. 

Charles  Sumner. 

Ogden  Hoffman  (portrait). 

Thomas  Francis  Meagiier. 

Wendell  Philips. 

Elihu  Burritt. 

Wm.  C.  Byrnnt  (portrait). 

Daniel  S.  Dickinson. 

General  Winfleld  Scott. 


Gerrit  Smith  (portrait). 

Edward  Beecher. 

Thos.  H.  Benton  (portrait). 

Wm.  L.  Marcy. 

Alfred  Bunn. 

Peter  Oartwright. 

Anson  Burlingamo. 

George  Law  (portrait). 

Dr.  J.  W.  Francis. 

Dr.  S.  H.  Cox. 

Freeman  Hunt. 

B.  P.  Shiilaber. 

Bishop  James. 

Rev.  Mr.  Wadsworth. 

Rev.  Dr.  Durbin. 

S.  A.  Douglas  (portrait). 

W.  Gilmore  Simms. 

James  Gordon  Bennett. 

Caleb  Gushing. 

James  Watson  Webb. 

Dr.  Duffleld. 

J.  R.  Lowell. 

John  Mitchel  (portrait). 

And  others. 


OPINIONS  OP  THE  PRESS. 

The  following  very  brief  extracts  from  extended  notices  of  the  book  by  leading 
papers,  will  give  the  public  some  idea  of  the  estimation  placed  upon  it. 

From  The  Commomoealth,  Boston. 
"The  boo':  will  sell — It  will  be  read — It  will  have  a  wide  popularity.  It  is  written  in  the 
right  way  for  it,  and  if  the  author  don't  pet  his  10,000  from  it  we  vei-y  much  mistake 
figures.  He  writes  like  a  man  who  is  fully  wide  awake  ;  his  portraits  sparkle  with  vitality. 
The  engravings  are  superb,  and  the  letter  press  excellent;  the  binding  gala-lsh.  Get  the 
book  if  you  want  one  that  will  take  your  arm  and  be  an  agreeable  companion." 

From  Tfie  Christian  Freeman,  Boston. 
*•  He  never  allows  anything  like  dulness  to  dow  from  his  pen.    His  descriptions  are 
graphic  and  to  the  life.    Every  sketch  might  be  termed  a  master  portrait.    He  writes 
with  an  independent,  fearless  pen,  witliout  fear  or  favor." 

From  TJie  Bost'On  Traveller. 
••Written  in  a  spirited  and  oBf-hand  style,  presenting  well-drawn  and  characteriatio 

portraits." 

From  The  Ncvyport  Netcs,  R.  I. 
"  The  portraits  are  dashed  off  with  a  free  and  easy  pencil,  and  are  uncommonly 
natural  and  life-like." 

From  TlieMgis^  Worcester,  Mass. 
Every  one  who  desires  a.  knowledge  of  eminent  living  men,  should  have  this  volume." 
We  could  fill  a  volume  with  the  encomiums  already  received  (altliough  all  parts  of  the 
eountry  have  not  been  heard  from),  but  we  think  we  do  not  err  in  saying  thnt  a  ro.ore  at- 
tractive bcoki  both  in  interior  and  exterior,  has  never  been  offered  to  the  public. 

DEWITT  &  DAVENPORT,  Publishers, 
Nos.  160  and  1C2  Nassau  tst 


■#; 


As  novels  of  quiet  homor,  genuine  pathos,  and  richness  and  Tlvidness  of  description, 
Mrs.  Hoodie's  Worlds  have  acquired  a  reputation  which  will  endear  them  to  ererjr  lover 
of  the  beauthul  and  truthful  In  nature. 

By  special  arrangement  with  Mrs.  Moodie  we  are  now  the  sole-  publishers  of  her 
works  in  ianerica.    Her  Life-History  is  contained  in  the  following  worka. 


FLORA  LYNDSAY; 

OB,   PASSAGES   IN  AN   EVENTFUL   LIFE. 

Price,  in  paper,  63  eta.;  eteganUy  bound  in  cloth,  T6  eta. 

Those  who  laughed  and  cried  while  in  imagination  they  were  "  Roughing  if  In  the 
Bush  "  with  Mrs.  Moodie  will  f".]ie  up  with  eagerness  this  fiction,  which  is  Ja  fact,  under 
an  assumed  name,  an  autobiography  of  her  own  eventful  life  prior  to  her  seeking  a  new 
home  in  America,  and  also  a  vivid  and  thrillir.g  description  of  ev.at?  that  transpired  Id 
a  long  and  perilous  voyage  over  the  Atlantic. — Philadelphia  Saturday  Evening  Pout. 

AX\  who  have  read  "  Roughing  It  in  the  Bush  "  will  be  sure  to  look  with  eager  curiosity 
into  the  pages  of  "  Flora  Lindsey  "  end  he  repaid  by  the  perusal  of  a  delightful  story.— 
Bo(.ton  Atlas. 

This  new  work  of  Mrs.  M'  's  truly  a  delightful  one.— JBosto/i  Mail. 


R  O  U  GHxrG    IT  IN    THE    B  U  S  Ii. 

Elegantly  bound  in  cloth,  price  $1  00. 

Mrs.  Moodie's  descriptions  of  frontier  life  have  never  been  surpassed. — Boston  Times. 

Mrs.  Moodie  stands  in  the  front  rank  of  able  female  writers,  and  we  cordially  recom- 
mend "  Roughing  It  in  the  Bush"  to  our  readers. — Alton  Courier. 

It  is  written  in  a  beautiful,  simple  style,  truthful  and  lifelike,  with  that  peculiar  fascinat- 
ing manner  and  dry,  quiet  humor  that  is  so  peculiarly  her  own, — Phila.  Christian 
Observer. 


LIFE  IN  THE   CLEARINGS  vs.    THE   BUSH. 

Price,  in  paper,  50  cts. ;  eh  ^antly  bound  in  cloth,  76  cts. 

"Tbave  been  repeatedly  asked,  since  the  publication  of  "Roughing  it  in  the  Bush," 
to  give  an  account  of  the  present  state  of  society,  and  to  point  out  its  increasing  pros- 
perity and  commercial  advantages ;  but  statistics  are  not  my  forte,  nor  do  I  feel  myself 
qualified  for  such  an  arduous  and  important  task.  My  knowledge  is  too  limited  to  enable 
me  to  write  a  comprehensive  work  on  a  subject  of  vital  consequence,  which  might  iuvolvo 
the  happiness  of  other's.  But  what  I  do  know  I  will  endeavour  to  sketch  with  a  light 
pencil ; "and  if  I  cannot  convey  much  useful  information,  I  will  try  to  amuse  the  reader; 
and  by  a  mixture  of  prose  and  poetry  compile  a  small  volume,  which  may  help  to  while 
away  an  idle  hour,  or  fill  up  the  blanks  of  a  wet  day." — Authors  Prefaa,  [Nearly  Ready]. 


MARK    HURDLE  STONE; 

OS,  THE  TWO  BKOTBEBS. 

Price,  in  paper,  60  eta. ;  elegantly  bound  in  cloth,  76  eta. 


\ 


We  advise  all  who  get  this  book  not  to  take  it  up  late  in  the  evening,  for  they  will  be 
«uro  to  spend  the  night  in  reading  it.  It  is  impossible  to  leave  cff,  so  tiurrying  and  in- 
tense Is  the  Interert. — Lynn  (Mass.)  News. 

The  work  before  us  Is  one  of  the  most  powerful  ever  published  by  a  woman,  full  of 
deep  meaning,  of  stern  truths,  aud  pure  morality. — Portsmouth  {N.  if.)  Journal. 


-'*)r-."*««'-.|U^V-' 


■^■>e!'MM 


